


Number 1 Crush

by Duckyboos



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Horror, Anal Sex, Angst, Barebacking, Blood and Gore, Breathplay, Castiel is Obsessed with Dean Winchester, Castiel/Dean Winchester UST, Character Death, Chef Benny Lafitte, Dark, Dean Winchester is Obsessed with Castiel, Dentist Garth, Dom/sub Undertones, Face-Fucking, Fist Fights, Friends to Lovers to Enemies to Lovers, Hand Jobs, Horror Movie Fan Dean Winchester, Jealous Dean Winchester, Jealousy, Lawyer Castiel (Supernatural), M/M, Mechanical Engineer Dean Winchester, Murder, Murder Husbands, Murder Kink, Murder Mystery, Mutual Pining, Obsession, Oral Sex, Possessive Castiel (Supernatural), Psychological Horror, Public Sex, Roommates, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Sexual Tension, Snark, Spanking, Stalking, Team Dean Winchester's Red Ass, Unrequited Crush, Video Games Developer Charlie, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:48:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 103,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26200648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Duckyboos/pseuds/Duckyboos
Summary: Dean, Benny, Charlie, Garth, and Cas are old college buddies. In their thirties now, they meet up once a year to shed their adult responsibilities for a week. This year it's Garth's turn to choose where they go and he's still as obsessed with horror and weird shit as he was back in college. He ends up picking a supposedly deserted hotel in the friggin' mountains. The place is creepy as hell and as night falls, two things become increasingly apparent. One: the place isn’t as deserted as they first thought, and two: Dean’s college stalker is back from the dead.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 1188
Kudos: 718
Collections: The Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Here we are again, folks. It's been a while since I've written a dark fic, so I'm long overdue. I've been wanting to write a slasher flick fic for goddamn years, so I've finally pulled it together. Expect some horror, gore, sexy times, creepy creepy stalking, and lots of misdirection. I'll add more tags as we go so as to avoid giving away the ending.
> 
> This fic has been beta'd (I know, right? I have a beta for the first time ever - I'm taking this shit seriously, y'all) by the immensely talented (and fellow horror nerd), [FriendofCarlotta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FriendofCarlotta/pseuds/FriendofCarlotta) (go read!)
> 
> The title is taken from a song called #1 Crush by Garbage.  
> The Ennis Hill Inn is loosely based on a real place, but I’ve taken a lot of liberties with the descriptions. 
> 
> And finally. This story takes place in two places/times. The present at the hotel and the past at college.

They say that the friends you make in college are the friends you’ll have for life. 

Dean used to consider that one of those schmaltzy, Hallmark-type sentiments that romanticized relationships forged through a college roommate algorithm and a shared passion for destroying your liver in the most creative ways. 

But now? Now he knows differently. 

Every year, Dean, Benny, Charlie, Garth, and Cas meet up for a week and do something fun. Last year was Benny’s pick, and he took them on a voodoo tour of New Orleans. The year before that was Charlie’s, and she managed to score them general-admittance tickets to E3 in LA. 

This year is Garth’s pick, and instead of doing something really cool like _literally anything_ other than driving them into a terrifyingly isolated place in the goddamn mountains, he’s driving them into a terrifyingly isolated place in the goddamn mountains.

The main highway is a good few miles back and down, no longer visible, lost to the density of the surrounding tree canopy, and Dean’s _not at all_ concerned that none of them would be able to pick their way back through the matted undergrowth and thick branches. Sprawling eastward, the whole area is likely thousands of square miles of wooded hill and jagged escarpment. It really wouldn’t be difficult for them to disappear up here. 

So, yeah. Seems as though they really _will_ be friends for life. Right up until their deaths in a cabin in the woods.

At least they’re not going to an abandoned camp by a clear lake.

There’s a reason why horror tropes are a thing. They set up the expectations for the audience, giving them something to rely on. If it's a really good horror story, those expectations will be subverted without veering into the ridiculous. 

See: The Drew Barrymore death in Scream, the twist at the end of the first Saw movie, the Candyman ending. _Psycho_.

Of course, stories told without subverting the genre tropes can be just as effective. Some of the very best horror stories rely heavily on the staples. 

See: Friday the 13th, The Blair Witch Project, The Amityville Horror. _The Thing_.

Dean's always been a big fan of the classics. The ones where dumbasses get their vacuous selves murderized and everyone in the theater groans in frustration, _because why did she run up the freakin' stairs?! The door was right there!_

He never considered himself that kind of dumbass. But today is a day for unfortunate revelations apparently, because a group of five friends driving through the middle of the woods is right up there with death by sex and chainsaws in the pantheon of horror cliches. 

He’s officially a willing participant in one of the most well-trodden horror movie tropes of all time.

Dean already knows what's gonna happen. They're gonna break down on the side of the road, in the middle of nowhere and without cell service. Or, they'll reach their cabin in the woods and slowly get killed off one by one by a maniac with a machete and no social skills.

Only dumbasses would allow themselves to end up as a Texas Chainsaw ripoff, right? 

Right.

Yet here they are, tempting fate (and Jason, and hillbilly cannibals, and zombies). 

“Where are we goin’?” Benny asks, watching the lush greenery of the forest pass by outside the car windows, the sun still high in the clear sky. “Grandma’s house?”

Garth, behind the steering wheel of the rented Grand Cherokee, grins over his shoulder like the messy-haired maniac he is and sing-songs, “To Grandma's house we go. Heigh-ho, heigh-ho, heigh-ho. We're on our way with horse and sleigh…” 

Dean trades glances with Charlie, who’s wedged in the backseat between him and Benny. 

“Ooh, I wonder if we’ll run into the Big Bad Wolf,” she grins, waggling her eyebrows suggestively at Dean.

“Dean would probably like that,” Cas mutters from the front seat, all derision and snark. 

_Dick._

“Nah,” Dean says, “I’m more into bears these days.”

The whole car breaks out into hoots and hollers, and Dean meets Cas’ ice-blue glare in the rearview mirror. He winks with as much over-the-top sleaze as he can muster. Cas scowls in return before he turns to stare out the window, chin on his palm, the perfect picture of a sulky teenager. Except they’re in their thirties now, all grown up and responsible and shit. Which is what makes this trip more than a little suspect.

What kind of self-respecting thirty-somethings all agree to traipse off into the woods for a week without so much as making sure there’s a spa and no axe murderers?

The key to answering that question lies with the ‘self-respecting’ part. 

“If we’re staying at a hotel or somethin’,” Benny says, “why are we bringin’ sleepin’ bags?”

It’s a fair thing to ask.

Wrinkling her nose, Charlie leans forward, bracing her forearms against the front seats and peeks between them to look at Garth. “This sure does have all the earmarks of a camping trip.”

“You just never know,” Garth offers mysteriously, sounding far too pleased with himself. 

“Oh God,” Cas grouses, like the fucking stick-in-the-mud he’s become in the last few years, and Dean barely refrains from rolling his eyes.

“Either way, it’s an adventure, right?” Dean says. “That’s what we signed up for, ain’t it?” He nudges his knees up against the back of Cas’ seat, knowing that it’ll annoy the hell outta him. “Maybe it’s time you remembered how to have fun, Cas.”

Cas doesn’t say anything. A week in the wilds isn’t exactly Dean’s idea of a good time either, but this is Garth’s choice, and he’s had a rough go of it recently, what with his marital troubles, so the least Cas could do is pretend that he actually wants to be here. 

“I know where we’re goin’,” Benny announces, and everyone waits with bated breath to hear what he’s gonna say. “The _Pet Sematary._ ”

Charlie throws her head back on a filthy witch-cackle. “Let’s do some dead raising!”

“I knew it wasn’t exactly gonna be the Bellagio,” Dean jokes, “but I at least figured we’d be able to get a shower without accidentally raising somebody’s pet labradoodle, or take a shit without having to dig a hole through layers of mud and twigs first.”

The bar of expectations was not set high.

“But bears do that, and you love bears, right, Dean?” Cas smarts, deliberately obtuse, and Dean opens his mouth to make an undoubtedly witty retort—something along the lines of ‘maybe if we remove that stick from your ass, we can use it as kindling for the campfire’—when he’s interrupted by Garth stopping the car.

“Here we are!” 

They all turn to look out the windows. There’s a narrow dirt path slanting up the hillside to the right, trees on either side of the road bending in toward each other the whole way. 

“Oh, that isn’t ominous _at all_ ,” Dean says, feeling as though he’s staring death right in the hollow-eyed, gaunt face.

“Yeah,” Garth agrees. “Does look kinda creepy, right?”

“What’s up there, Garth?” Charlie asks, peering out Dean’s window too. 

“Hopefully the Ennis Hill Inn.”

“Wait wait wait,” Dean interjects. “‘ _Hopefully_ ’? You mean you don’t know?”

“Well, I haven’t actually been here before. I read about this place on the internet.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake—” Benny mutters, at the same time Charlie starts laughing, Cas grumbles something under his breath, and Dean tries to remember why he’s friends with any of these people.

Willfully ignorant of the air of pessimism in the car, Garth begins weaving his _Are You Afraid of the Dark?_ tale with a comically hushed voice. “So legend has it that this place was a pretty decent hotel back in the ‘70s, but then business started to decline in the ‘80s. The wife went mad, so the husband dropped her off at the psychiatric ward and shut the hotel down, leaving everything exactly as it was. Apparently, the only visitor this place gets is a fog that descends every once in a while.”

There’s silence in the car for a couple of beats until they all start talking over each other again, Dean saying, “We’re a bit high up in the mountains for fucking mariners to put in an appearance, ain’t we?” At the same time Cas reasons, “I mean, we’re in the mountains, so it’s completely natural that the area will see regular fog formation.” Benny is ranting about Garth’s inability to craft a truly scary story and Charlie is busy wondering aloud why the dude would abandon the place just ‘cause his wife lost her shit. "Like, did they not have a manager?"

“Maybe it’s a Shining kinda deal? Why she went mad, I mean,” Dean shrugs. “Blood in the elevators and stuff.”

“Terrific,” Cas deadpans, “And I only brought two clean shirts.”

Dean snorts a laugh, and their eyes meet and catch in the rearview mirror again. 

_Don't go there, Winchester._

“Let’s just get this shit over with,” Benny says, ever the pragmatist, waving a hand in a loose gesture of ‘hurry up.’ 

Garth restarts the engine and steers the car up the narrow road. The further up the mountain they go, the thicker the trees get, until they damn near block out the sun entirely, small beams of light dappling through here and there.

“Jesus,” Dean mutters. “Of all the ways I thought I was gonna die, I did _not_ imagine it was gonna be up a freakin’ mountain with my leg gnawed off by hill people.”

Abruptly, they find themselves in the daylight again as the car exits the thick copse of trees. Directly up in front of them, the path curves to the right, thinning into a gravel driveway-slash-access-road. Some interesting (but also kinda eerie) totem poles frame the entrance on either side. The old wooden columns depict forest creatures, beasts and demons. One of the poles is tilted at a sharp angle, ready to fall at any moment. At one point, they were probably brightly decorated, but now they just look like pieces of ornate driftwood. Or dirty gray bone. 

_Fantastic._

They couldn’t have gone to Atlantic City or some shit? Maybe hung out with some alligators in the Everglades?

A metal sign, bent and rusted—and reading KEEP OUT—is nailed at eye level to the upright pole.

“Well,” Dean declares, “I’m all for civil disobedience, but I say we do what the sign says.”

“It’s just ‘cause it’s closed to the public, that’s all,” Garth informs them, but doesn’t sound entirely convinced himself. 

As they drive through, they spot initials and various obscenities carved into the poles, some of them pretty near the top, which may explain why one of them is at that sixty-degree angle. 

The car noses upward and Benny asks, “So, just who _is_ this place open to?”

“Ghosts,” Charlie answers, staring out the windshield as the road levels out. The hood of the car lowers, revealing the view ahead. 

Yeahhh, she’s probably not wrong.

The inn is a broad, multi-story structure with walls of gray stone. The roof is made of steep shake shingles, and sags in various places. There’s a sort of cloister near the front that definitely, absolutely isn’t housing any serial killers or a million things that thrive in dark mountainous places.

All in all, the whole place has gotta be a couple hundred thousand square feet.

It looks like a fucking asylum. 

Which is strangely appropriate.

Dean’s relieved to see that, at least, none of the hundreds of windows have institution-style bars. But most of the shutters hang open or are damaged or crooked, or are just gone entirely. Some of the windows are broken.

_The Four Seasons, this place ain’t._

The somewhat crumbling architecture doesn’t really inspire confidence. But hey, on the bright side, the _building_ might kill them instead of some psycho. 

As they get closer, Dean can see that the roof of the main porch has partially caved in due to a fallen tree branch, its jagged stub protruding from the mess of broken and smashed tiles. 

At the center of the porch, straight ahead, the inn’s main door stands open. 

“My God,” Cas mutters, mostly under his breath, but Dean catches it anyway.

“Don’t think God is gonna help us now, Cas.”

Garth pulls the Grand Cherokee into the lot and cuts the engine. Benny immediately swings his door open, and everyone else follows suit, glad to be out of the claustrophobic space after such a long drive.

“Everybody remember where we parked!” Charlie quips to a round of low groans.

Dean stretches as soon as his feet touch solid ground, peeling his moist shirt away from his sweaty back. It smells pretty good out here, nice and crisp and woodsy. It’s a shame that Garth has chosen to let them all be murdered at the fucking Overlook Hotel, ‘cause otherwise it would be a kinda cool area to explore.

In front of him, Cas stretches as well, band t-shirt riding up, revealing a tanned strip of skin that Dean can still remember the taste of. 

_Nope. Definitely not going there._

They all meet at the hood of the car, the five of them staring at what is going to be their new home for the next few days. 

“Garth, are you sure about this?” Charlie asks, squinting up at the windows, sunlight prisming off her bright red hair. “You sure you can’t be persuaded to let us stay somewhere without the creep factor? I’ve heard the Lizzie Borden hotel has vacancies.”

Garth looks around at all their faces in turn, and apparently doesn’t like what he sees. “Aww, come on, guys, it can’t be _that_ bad? We all bonded over our love of horror, so I thought it’d be fun to do something a bit different. Something that reminds us of our college days.”

Aw, fuck.

With a broken, guilt-tripping sigh that he perfected senior year, Garth trudges on ahead toward the inn, and the remaining four exchange glances.

“Shit,” Benny growls. “Looks like we’re gonna have to suck it up.”

“Yeah,” Dean and Charlie agree, whilst Cas just nods, something passing across the clear blue of his eyes, some veil of disquiet that he chooses not to give voice to.

None of them make to move for a long few moments, all holding out for someone else to go.

Losing the game of haunted hotel chicken, and with a faintly hissed “Dammit,” Charlie starts after Garth. “Wait up, we’re coming!”

Benny follows after her, leaving Cas and Dean standing shoulder to shoulder. Dean’s the first one to voice what they’re both thinking. “So, this is gonna be fun.”

On a world-weary exhale, Cas says, “Yes.” He glances at Dean, earnest expression sinking down into their years-long connection. “I suppose we’d better go too.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, not breaking eye contact. 

Goddammit, this is harder than it usually is. Every other year they’ve done this, the five of them have flown in from their various states, met up at whatever hotel they’re staying at, and Dean and Cas have been able to pretty much avoid each other for the entire week. Now, though? Now, they have no choice but to actually interact, and judging by the mutual sniping in the car, it’s gonna be a _laugh riot_.

On the upside, there’s a high likelihood that they’ll all be dead by the end of the week, so there’s that.

“C’mon.” Dean starts walking toward the inn. Cas joins him. Twigs and leaves crackle and crunch beneath their shoes, loud in the otherwise quiet lot.

Although the road is littered with debris from the surrounding forest, enough areas have been swept clear by the wind that Dean can see patches of gray, cracked pavement. Weeds, wild grass, and even a few saplings are growing in the fissures. 

He spots a broken sapling and drops down onto his haunches, crouching over it. “Look at this.” 

Cas’ shadow falls over him, “It’s broken. Do you think somebody’s been here?”

“Yeah. Recently, too.” Dean folds a silky leaf between his thumb and forefinger. There’s a little give in it before it splits. “The leaves are still green. Probably hasn’t been dead longer than a week.”

“Could have been one of your bears,” Cas suggests wryly as Dean pushes to his feet. 

He magnanimously ignores the dig. “Or maybe this place ain’t as deserted as it looks.”

Cas tilts his head, squints. It’s a habit that Dean’s always found quietly adorable. It reminds him of better times, ones that revolved around the two of them panting and laughing, curled up in each other in the pushed-together narrow width of their dorm beds, sheets rucked up and stinking of the minutes, hours, days spent mindlessly fucking. 

_Still not going there._

Yeah, now really isn’t the time for an NC-17 highlight reel of their relationship, not when there’s probably a bloodthirsty killer in a hockey mask waiting to jump out from somewhere. Pissed at himself for allowing his thoughts to stray to that filmy, heartsick place he doesn’t often revisit, Dean brushes off his hands and continues toward the inn, trusting that Cas will follow. 

Directly in front of the porch, the road flares out into two lanes. The one going right runs the full length of the inn, leading to a ramshackle sort of shed. The one going left winds around the rear of the hotel.

Charlie has stopped at the foot of the porch steps, and she’s digging around in her backpack for what Dean already knows is gonna be her camera. 

By the time Dean and Cas have caught up, Charlie is busy ushering Garth and Benny into poses, facing away from the hotel. She shoves Dean and Cas into position and tells them, “Pretend that you still like each other and that a single touch won’t have you collapsing into each other’s arms like old times.”

Dean gives her the finger and Garth snort-laughs. Cas is stiff next to him as Dean throws an arm around his shoulders. Between Dean and Garth, Benny places his palms on their lower backs. 

“What a handsome bunch of guys!” Charlie grins as she backs up to get them and the creepy-ass hotel in the frame. "Say, 'Let's all get murdered'!"

Right before the flash goes off, the back of Dean’s neck prickles. 

Obligatory photo for their ‘ _supposedly intelligent adults go missing on ill-advised vacation to haunted hotel’_ segment on CNN taken, Dean turns his head to stare at the open door. All he can see beyond it is shadowy gloom.

Yep. This is a bad fucking idea.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cannot thank [FriendofCarlotta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FriendofCarlotta/pseuds/FriendofCarlotta) enough for all the skillful wrangling required to get this chapter to work.

** Fourteen years ago, UC Berkeley **

Dean’s a reasonably smart guy. 

He can diagnose and fix transmission problems in pretty much any make and model of vehicle, can design a working industrial printer from the ground up, and is generally pretty capable at math.

Because those things make sense. They’re _logical_. You work through the problem methodically and there will be a predictable outcome. 

Yet, when it comes to matters of the heart, he’s a complete dumbass. Not even an oh-ho-some-parts-are-missing dumbass, but an actual, bona fide idiot. 

He can do the flirty stuff, he can do the sex stuff (and does both, on a fairly regular basis). But _love_? Eh. 

Which is why it’s pretty unfucking fortunate that he’s found himself in a predicament requiring him to understand the nuances of his own feelings instead of a carburetor. 

He would ask Jo for advice — she’s about as love-fluent as Dean himself is, but as his friend, she’s obligated to listen to him bitch and maybe offer some words of encouragement — except she’s late for their morning coffee date, again, and Dean’s getting cranky. He needs his coffee to function, and no amount of gooey-eyed, _‘but Dean, he has the cutest dimples/ass/smile‘_ gushing about Jo’s latest fuck buddy is going to make up for his distinct lack of caffeinated lifeblood. 

With an aggrieved, Shakespearean-tragedy sigh, Dean hitches his backpack further up his shoulder as he stares unseeingly at the rainbow array of fliers pinned to the notice board outside the mechanical engineering building. They’re mostly standard stuff; invites to keggers, roommate pleas, dance lessons, etc. 

He’s about to type out a strongly-worded text to Jo, when one of the brightly colored pieces of paper catches his eye. 

The red and white flyer — written in the comically terrible _‘Chiller_ ’ font — reads: 

‘CALLING ALL HORROR AFICIONADOS

Do you like scary movies? 

Then whatever you do, don’t fall asleep on this chance to be a part of the scariest group on campus!

The power of Christ compels you to join us!’

It’s a truly impressive amount of horror movie references in such a limited amount of space and, figuring it could be fun, Dean tears off a strip with the number on it, stuffing it into the pocket of his jeans. 

Jo _finally_ turns up a couple of minutes later with his black coffee, a donut (which means all is forgiven), and a walk-of-shame grin. 

Eating their food, they start walking to their sophomore class together, Dean — like the gentleman he is — propping the building’s main door open for her as they make their way to room 3110 for their lecture on isentropic processes.

“What happened now?” she asks around a mouthful of fried dough and sugar. “I can tell you’re itching to tell me something. You finally make your move?”

Okay, so. Dean might have a _teensy_ (probably unrequited) crush on his (almost definitely straight) roommate, Cas. It’s been there pretty much since the beginning of the year, when they awkwardly shuffled their stuff into the double room and tried not to look at one another directly. 

Getting powdered sugar down the front of his shirt and narrowly missing splattering his boots with blueberry jelly, Dean explains, “No, but last night, we had this _moment_. I’m sure of it. We were playing Mortal Kombat—”

“—Was he Mileena again?”

“Of course.”

Jo’s warped theory is that Cas always picks Mileena ‘cause he _knows_ Dean has a weird thing for her and somehow it’s his plan to win Dean over by association with a dual sai-wielding assassin with big boobs.

Like he said, they’re both pretty useless when it comes to love stuff. 

Finished with her donut, Jo waves a sticky hand. “Continue.”

“And I honestly thought he was gonna kiss me, but then he looked away, and said—” Dean affects Cas’ low timbre for full effect, “—‘Do you think that the sexualization of women in video games is a contributor to low self-esteem amongst our peers?’”

“Ouch.” Jo actually winces. 

“Yeah,” Dean says, brushing his shirt free of sugar before they enter the lecture hall. “I just can’t figure the guy out. As soon I think I’ve got it, he pulls the old bait and switch. I mean, is that him flirting or what?”

Their professor is still setting up in front of the whiteboard and projector, so they dash to their seats near the back. Coffees on the floor and laptops on the tiny desks, Jo turns to Dean with a gleam in her brown eyes and says, “I think I know how you can find out.”

  
  


***

  
  


Dean's feeling pretty good on the way back to his dorm that evening. Finals are rushing up on him at lightning speed, but at least he’s got the best study partner on the entire campus for a roommate. 

It’s stupid, but Dean always looks forward to their standing Tuesday night study date.

As he enters their building, Dean’s already imagining Cas hunched at his desk, squinting down at the pages of a poli-sci textbook. He’s probably got that little ineffectual desk fan of his going, ‘cause it’s hotter than satan’s asshole at the moment, and literally _nobody_ is worse in the heat than Cas. 

Not that Dean minds when Cas gets all sweaty and frustrated, because he absolutely doesn’t. Cas is gorgeous at the best of times, but when his flawless skin is covered in a light sheen of sweat, his dark hair sticking up in spikes where he ran his hands through it, his lips the prettiest, most inviting pink and swollen from all the frustrated nibbling? 

He’s 180 pounds of Dean’s dirtiest, blow-your-load-in-under-sixty-seconds, spank bank material.

Armed with Jo’s advice — _‘why don’t you hang around the room half-naked tonight, maybe bend over a couple of times? See if you can get a_ rise _out of him?’_ — Dean’s a jittery, caffeinated mix of confidence and nerves as he heads upstairs. 

As far as he knows, Cas is strictly into girls, but Dean thought the same thing until he was confronted with Josh Adams and his thick biceps in tenth grade. If Jo’s right, then Cas will be relieved that he can finally give up the charade, and they’ll wear themselves out with all the sex they’ve deprived themselves of in the last nine months.

And if not, well, he’s seen Cas throw a punch. Dean’ll just have to bear a broken nose and heart for a little while.

On their floor now, Dean trudges along, acknowledging their neighbors with a head nod and smile. There’s a really weird guy a couple of doors down from them who makes a point of staring at Dean like he’s starving and Dean’s an all-you-can-eat plate of buffalo wings, but thankfully, his door is firmly shut today. 

Because he’s still keeping his eyes open for the creeper, just in case he pops up in front of him like a shitty jumpscare, Dean isn’t paying much attention to his own door. He stumbles backward into their dorm and only turns his back on the hallway when he hears a hissed, “S _hit!_ ”

Oh.

Dean doesn’t know what heartbreak feels like, but he’s pretty sure it’s close to this. The steady thump of his pulse in his ears is the only thing that assures him his heart is, in fact, still beating, instead of lying in glittering shards at the bottom of his ribcage.

Cas is in his own single bed, but he’s not the only person in it. There’s a brunette girl, who is being particularly space-conscious by lying on top of Cas. The pair of them are shirtless, and although Dean’s watched a lot of porn that starts this way, this scene is doing nothing for him.

Other than making his soul ache.

_So, Jo was wrong, then._

Cas scrambles out from underneath the girl, whom Dean now recognizes as one of Cas’ classmates, Meg. He falls gracelessly to the floor and Dean averts his gaze right after he catches sight of the blood-rich bruises on Cas’ naked chest and neck.

_Jeez. Stupid, so fucking stupid._

“I, err,” Dean hikes a thumb over his shoulder, waiting for his brain to catch up. “I— sorry. Didn’t mean to intrude.” He spies the DVD case for House of Wax (the original, not the shitty remake) on his own desk and snatches it up. “I just came back for this.”

_Good save. Totally believable._

“Dean, I didn’t realize you’d be home so soon,” Cas explains, clambering to his feet and glancing at the clock on his nightstand. “Oh. It’s late.”

The implication being that they got so caught up in making out that time ceased to exist.

Fucking hell, Dean really is a delusional moron. 

“It’s okay,” Dean manages around the lump in his throat. He swallows it down, along with the tattered remains of his stinging pride. “I’m just gonna go. I’ll catch you later, alright?”

He’s out of the door and closing it behind him before Cas can respond, and as he closes it, he just about catches Cas asking Meg quietly, “Do you think it worked?”

Dean doesn’t know the context of that comment for sure, but he can make a pretty good guess. He’s probably been so obvious about his stupid crush, Cas had to resort to whatever the fuck _that_ was to make Dean understand that he isn’t interested.

Well, message received. Loud and clear.

***

  
  


Banished from their dorm room, Dean isn’t sure what to do with himself.

He walks aimlessly in the stream of people outside, following the backpack in front of him, wandering past the siren call of the takeout places stuffed full with hungry students. 

It’s a good few minutes of midnight static in his brain before he realizes that he’s at the plaza, so he finds an empty bench and hauls his backpack into his lap. Hugging it to his chest, he watches what life looks like around him. On the lawn, couples laugh together on picnic blankets, the very picture of youthful sweetheart eyes, and Dean kind of hates them for it. There’s a trio of frat guys handing out fliers, chanting at passersby, who take the fluorescent paper thrust into their open palms. Multiple students go past, holding baked goods, and Dean’s mouth waters. 

He hasn’t eaten since the donut this morning, because he’d figured that he and Cas would get a pizza tonight and work their way through Dean’s metallurgy revision and Cas’ constitutionalism stuff. 

Instead, Cas has more important things to be working through.

_Like Meg’s clothes._

Fuck.

He’s not sure where to go from here. He could go to the library, but there’s no way he’d be able to study now, and Jo’s on another ‘date,’ so he can’t go around there either. 

He’s got a DVD of a Vincent Price classic, his laptop (with close to no battery), his cell, and — he shoves a hand in his pocket, to see if there’s any change hiding so he can at least buy himself some food — huh, a crumpled slip of paper?

Oh, it’s that horror thing.

Dean stares down at the printed number. It’s somewhere to go, right? Something to do to take his mind off of Cas? The sky is tinged orange with the first traces of dusk, so he should probably make a decision before it gets dark.

_They might have food?_

Most of Dean’s decisions are made by three body parts: his dick, his stomach, and his heart (usually in that order). The last one has fucked him over today and his dick ain’t exactly got the best track record either, so it’s time to listen to his stomach. 

He carefully keys the number into his cell, double-checking before stuffing the paper back into his pocket.

After a couple of rings, the line connects and an enthusiastic female voice says, “Greetings, fellow person! Are you calling about the horror thing or the computer thing?”

“Err, the horror thing,” Dean replies slowly, glancing up as a couple of giggling girls walk past him super close, all sugar-sweet perfume and bedroom eyes. He winks at the blonde, because lovelorn or not, he’s still Dean Winchester. “But what’s the computer thing?”

“Classified,” comes the clipped, but humored answer. “So you saw our ad, huh? Nancy Thompson or Laurie Strode?”

“Damn. You couldn’t have eased me into this? Errr, Laurie.”

Though, he feels Sidney Prescott at least deserves an honorable mention.

“Jason in space or Manhattan?”

Dean doesn’t even need to think about this one. “Space. That kill with the liquid nitrogen was awesome.”

“Better sequel: Troll 2 or Halloween 3?”

“Neither follow the official canon, so they’re not _technically_ sequels.”

There’s a heartbeat pause. Then, in a Ghostface imitation so terrible that Dean actually cracks a smile for the first time since he left his dorm, the girl says, “What’s your favorite scary movie?”

It’s on the tip of his tongue to tell her Evil Dead 2, but then he realizes that’s not what she’s really asking.

“I don’t have any popcorn on the stove,” Dean tells her, “nor am I Drew Barrymore.”

“Shame,” the chick sighs wistfully, thankfully back to her normal voice. “Alright, you pass. We meet up every Tuesday at eight and watch horror movies and eat junk food. This week is a Vincent Price marathon.”

A glance up at the nearest clock face on the Campanile tells Dean it’s just past seven forty-five. What a coincidence.

“Yeah?” Dean asks. “‘Cause I’ve got House of Wax with me right now.”

Dean can hear the grin down the phone. “You’d better get your butt over here then. We’re off campus in our own place. You got a pen or an excellent memory handy?”

  
  


***

  
  


That night marks the first he spends with Charlie and Garth, the horror aficionados. Charlie’s a computer science undergrad, but she loves movies and photography. Garth is the mega (seriously, the dude’s knowledge is encyclopedic) horror lover out of the two of them and he’s a theater major.

Dean likes them both instantly, and they eat pizza, drink beer, and laugh their asses off at the Carol/skeleton scene in House on Haunted Hill.

For a few blissful hours, Dean doesn’t think about Cas at all, doesn’t spend his evening sneaking glances and staring at Cas’ mouth, wondering if he still tastes like the Skittles he’s been absent-mindedly crunching between his teeth as he tries to make sense of positivism.

Charlie hugs him at the end of the first official horror aficionados meeting, her hair smelling like strawberries, and it reminds Dean just how ripe he likely is in this heat, so he vows to have a much-needed shower when he gets back.

Charlie pats him on the shoulder. “Whoever they are, dude, they’re missing out big time. You’re awesome.”

He’s really that obvious, huh? 

_Evidently, or Cas wouldn’t have needed to force you to back off._

He thanks her — and Garth — for their hospitality and promises to be back next week for the Creepshow double bill.

If Cas isn’t gonna respect their Tuesday night study session, then Dean won’t either.

  
  


***

  
  


By the time Dean gets back to the dorm, it’s pretty late and he’s realllllly hoping that Meg is gone. He doesn’t think Cas would be so inconsiderate as to still have her over when he knows that Dean has an early lecture in the morning, but he never suspected Cas would choose such a shitty way to make his (lack of) feelings known either.

_Maybe you don’t know Cas as well as you thought._

He knocks on their door this time. Just in case.

He can feel the weirdo-slash-creeper’s eyes boring into him from across the hall, and he has to fight down his shudder. The guy’s decent-looking; tall and broad and dark-haired, with a brooding kind of Batman Begins vibe about him, and Dean would normally be all over a hookup with someone like him, but those good looks paired with the guy’s silent, starved stares are enough to have Dean steering clear of that whole fucking horror show. 

Because, sure, Jason, Freddie, and Michael are scary. But everyone knows that it’s the Ted Bundys of the world that are the _actual_ monsters. The ones who slide by on good looks and deceptive charm. The ones who are able to blend seamlessly into society and politely debate politics whilst they've got a dismembered body under the patio.

Dean’s tempted to say something to the dude. _What_ , he doesn’t know. Should he try to be flippant? Flirty? Threatening? Just outright tell the guy to fuck off?

Cas would know what to say. He has this uncanny ability to hone in on somebody’s weakness and use it to gut-punch them.

He’ll make a fine lawyer some day.

Nobody’s answering the door, no semi-naked Meg or Cas, so on a quiet sigh — and without saying anything to the creepy weirdo — Dean shoulders inside.

It’s dark in their room. The only light in the inky blackness comes from a small crack in the curtains that admits a thin slice of artificial white from the streetlamp outside their window.

“Cas?” 

No answer, but there’s a Cas-shaped lump in Cas’ bed, so Dean quickly snatches up some clean(ish) clothes and towel, his mostly empty shampoo bottle, and a washcloth. His soap is around here somewhere, but he’s not hunting around in the dark for it, and turning on the light would mean waking Cas and facing the resulting embarrassment. 

Which, obviously, he’s not eager to do. 

Shower stuff in his arms, he steps back out into the corridor. The creeper is gone, and Dean breathes a little easier. 

Now that he’s not rushing toward his uncertain doom and Cas, he can take the time to appreciate the atmosphere in the corridor. Even though it’s late, it’s still filled with music, voices, and laughter. On the way to the bathroom, Dean passes several open doors. Students in the rooms are sprawled on beds, sitting at desks, some studying, some carrying on discussions, others eating, drinking, and watching TV.

 _Why can’t you have a stupid, unrequited crush on any of_ them _? Why does it have to be your fucking roommate?_

The bathroom is on this side of double doors that separate the east wing of their dorms from the main stairs and west wing.

Dean enters, expecting to see at least a few people milling about, but there’s no-one. However, he can hear the sound of rushing water from the shower room.

He walks past the toilet stalls to the gym-like changing area. Steam drifts in from the shower room. There’s a single robe left on the bench. 

Dean empties his hands onto the bench and begins getting undressed. He rolls up his clothes, sets them down, before picking up his shower stuff and towel. 

He finds an empty shower stall and steps over the low tile barrier. He puts the shampoo in the little holder thing and drapes his towel over the connecting wall. Closing the curtain, he turns on the water, stepping back from the spray and testing it with his hand. When it’s hot, Dean moves underneath it. 

He turns around, so that the water is hitting the back of his head and neck, streaming down his back, over the swell of his ass, and down his legs. He stands motionless for a while, savoring the feel of it, enjoying the warmth sinking into his bones.

He’s just turning into the spray, letting it soak his hair and scalp when the lights go out, plunging the whole room into darkness.

_Fuck._

Someone must have turned them off on purpose, believing themselves to be the last ones in the shower room.

Despite the noise from Dean’s shower and his clothes on the bench. 

_Probably just a prank._

Dean waits and strains to listen, but he can’t hear much over the rush of water. 

He’s not sure what to do. Does he get out? What happens if it _is_ someone pulling a prank and they’re waiting outside with a camera? 

_Dammit._

Assholes. Dean’s usually on board for stupid pranks — just last week, someone filled one of the hallways with those polystyrene packing peanuts, which was hilarious — but this is just _uninspired_. 

“You’re fucking hilarious,” Dean tells the darkness as he fumbles for his shampoo. “Real original.” When he finds the bottle, he turns it upside down and slaps it into his palm a couple of times to get the viscous liquid to come out. 

He rubs his hands through his hair, starts soaping up, woodsy scent mingling with the steam.

This is some Psycho shit right here.

The lights still haven’t come back on and Dean’s trying to ignore the feeling of discomfort crawling under his skin, but there’s a reason why people getting caught out in showers is a thing in horror movies.

Still, nobody’s appeared with a knife and there haven’t been any jarring music cues, so he’s sticking to the prank theory. 

Dean turns his head into the spray, washing the shampoo out of his hair.

Which is when he feels a hand on his body — his ass, to be precise — that definitely isn’t his. 

With a loud “Fuck!” Dean lurches forward, forcing the hand to slip down his thigh. 

And then it’s gone. 

“Fuck!” Dean says again, and heedless of the soap now stinging his eyes or the possibility of someone waiting for him with a camera, he yanks the curtain back and yells into the darkness, “What the fucking fuck, man?! Not cool, you asshole!”

The entire place is silent, save for the sound of calm footsteps on tile, receding until Dean can’t hear them anymore. The bathroom door swings open, a sliver of noise from the corridor jostling in before it bumps shut, sealing him in the darkness and muffled silence again.

  
  
  


***

The next Tuesday finds Dean relaying his very own Marion Crane experience in the showers to Garth and Charlie.

He hasn’t told Cas yet because he’s still struggling with the spaces between the stilted words they’re barely saying to each other. An awkward ‘hey’ here, a self-conscious ‘will you be needing the room tonight?’ there. 

Dean’s been spending more time than ever at the library, but somehow less time than ever actually studying.

“So what’d you do?” Garth asks, Cheeto-fingered and on the edge of his seat on his and Charlie’s ratty, sunken couch.

“I grabbed my towel and hauled ass outta there,” Dean tells him from his sprawl on the bean bag, snatching a chip from the open packet on the coffee table. He sucks the dust off his index finger and thumb. “I’ve been showering in broad daylight ever since.”

Next to Garth, Charlie looks thoroughly enthralled. “This is like a Hitchcock plot. Do you think whoever it was singled you out specifically?”

Dean shrugs, feigns nonchalance he doesn’t really feel. “Maybe. There _is_ a creepy guy who lives a couple of doors down from me and Cas. Could’ve been him, I guess. Or just a random asshole thinking he’s funny.”

He’s definitely hoping for the latter.

There’s a knock on the door — shave and a haircut — and without so much as the socially expected ‘two bits’ response, the door is pushed open.

The broad-shouldered guy taking up the doorway is all guileless smile, intelligent blue eyes, and safely handsome in a take-him-home-to-your-mom way. But most importantly, he’s carrying a pizza box that smells like heaven and a bottle of Old No. 7.

“Benny!” Charlie squeals, jumping to her feet and pushing past Garth’s knees. “So glad you could join us!”

Benny eyes her suspiciously. “I know what I am to you really, Bradbury,” he drawls, fresh out of the bayou, and Dean’s already drawn to this guy’s natural warmth. 

“Pizza delivery system,” Garth says between one mouthful of Cheetos and the next.

“And alcohol too!” Charlie grins, neatly stealing the whiskey. “Since he’s the only legal one amongst us.” And with that she’s dancing off with the alcohol, holding it high like she’s about to perform a ritual.

“You not gonna introduce me to a fellow horror aficionado?” Benny calls out to her, eyes on Dean with an intense sort of focus. There’s humor in his voice at the idea of their little club of scary-movie obsessives, but it’s not mocking. More like worn-in fondness. 

“This is Dean,” Charlie shouts from the small kitchenette. “He’s over at Spens-Black with a roommate.”

“Oh?” Benny says, taking a seat next to Garth on the couch. “I’ve heard it’s pretty nice over there.”

“Apart from all the creepers,” Garth interjects casually, slapping Benny’s hand away from his Cheetos.

_Gee, thanks, Garth._

“Creepers?” Easily twice the size of Garth, Benny ignores him entirely and snags a fistful in his bearpaw.

Dean feels the back of his neck go hot with sudden embarrassment, “Err, yeah. There’s a guy who lives pretty much opposite me and my roommate. He’s always staring at me.”

“Can’t say I blame him,” Benny says casually, like Dean’s attractiveness is just a tenet of the universe rather than subjective opinion. “But you should report him to your RA if he’s harassin’ you.”

Dean’s about to wave it off, say that it’s not necessary, when Charlie reappears with mismatched glasses and the recently opened bottle of JD. “Someone touched him in the shower, too.”

If Dean could transmit intent through his thoughts, Charlie would be dead. Buried in a shallow grave somewhere with nothing other than a single leaf to denote her final resting place. She likely knows this, judging by the almost apologetic smile she sends his way as she fills all their glasses, giving Dean a half-inch more than everyone else.

“Now that?” Benny tilts his half-full glass at Dean. “You definitely need to report that.” 

Dean mumbles some sort of assent, before Charlie squishes down between Benny and Garth on the couch and flips open the pizza lid. “Dinner is served, boys! Now let’s get this Creepshow on the road.”

They eat, drink, and watch mostly in silence, only commenting here and there on the acting (or lack thereof), and Garth occasionally drops random facts. (“Did you know that Rice Krispies were used as maggots on the corpse's eyes there?” and “Ohh, see that right there? That’s not makeup on Stephen King’s face. He had an allergic reaction, so that’s his actual skin!”)

Once again, it’s a distracting couple of hours, with the temporary truce between Dean’s brain and heart only broken when Benny asks, “Your roommate not into horror movies?” 

Dean chews his pizza for so long that it tastes of soggy nothingness when he finally swallows.

“He likes them too, but he’s busy with his girlfriend on Tuesdays,” Dean manages after a huge glug of whiskey that burns on its way down. 

“Get him to bring her too. The more, the merrier.”

“Yeah,” Dean says. “Maybe.”

  
  


***

  
  


When he gets back to their dorm just after midnight, Cas is curved over his desk, cap of the highlighter pen in his mouth as he drags bright green across the lines in a textbook he paid half a month’s rent for. He looks up when Dean walks in, eyes traveling all over him in a way that always makes Dean feel a squirmy blend of self-conscious and hot under the collar. 

_He’s not interested in you. Remember?_

Dean needs to build a bridge and get over it, ‘cause Cas is gonna ask for another roommate or some shit, and Dean doesn’t wanna end up with an unknown quantity. Things might be awkward between them at the moment, but at least Cas ain’t a fucking psycho. 

Taking the cap out of his mouth, Cas smiles at him, but it’s a close-mouthed, white-person-in-a-hurry smile, rather than the genuine, toothy ones he used to grace Dean with before the Meg incident. 

Returning an awkward, tight-lipped smile of his own, Dean shucks out of his jacket, and drapes it on the back of his chair. He probably should study, but it’s late and he’s tired through to his bones. 

He’s ready to collapse onto his bed when he notices it: Placed neatly atop the tangle of his unmade sheets is something cube-shaped, wrapped in plain brown packing paper. His name is written on the outside in neatly printed black letters.

_What the hell?_

He’s not sure who would be sending him presents. He’s got a few friends in his classes, but he’s definitely not popular enough to be expecting gifts delivered to his freakin’ bed. Could be Jo, but he saw her just this morning, and she didn’t mention anything. 

Plus, as far as favors go, she draws the line at coffee and the occasional donut. This box is solid and weighty even though it’s only small, so there’s a high chance it’s more expensive than a couple of dollars.

Rather than ripping into the paper as he usually would (his little brother refers to it as the ‘bear at a campsite’ method of opening mail), Dean carefully picks open the edges of tape, sliding his thumb underneath the folds. 

He glances at Cas, who’s squinting at his textbook like the words are written in a foreign language. He’s not paying any attention to Dean and his present at all.

Successfully past the tape, Dean pulls the intact paper away from the box inside, lifting the lid along with it.

Holy shit. 

It’s one of those expensive Leatherman multi-tools that’s been on Dean’s to-buy list ever since he decided he wanted to be an engineer. It’s got wire cutters, knives, screwdrivers, wire strippers, a saw, and a million other things on it. 

It’s like a more badass Swiss Army knife.

Something - a photograph - flutters out of the box and falls to the bedspread face down. 

Dean reaches out to turn it over and see. 

_Oh, fuck._

It’s a shot of him in the plaza last week, sitting there miserable as fuck, hugging his bag to his chest, looking like he’s about to find a bridge to jump off of.

“Fuck,” Dean mutters, dropping the box and contents on his bed like they’re covered in ants. “Fuck!”

A stupid prank in the shower is one thing, but this is on another level entirely.

“Dean?”

When Dean’s blurry gaze swings to Cas, his roommate's blue eyes are filled with concern. “Are you okay?”

“Errr...” Dean drags a hand through his hair, tries to bluster his way through the panic clawing its way out of his throat. “Yeah, yeah, man. Um, do you know how this box got on my bed?”

Cas frowns. “It was outside our door when I got in a few hours ago. It was addressed to you, so I thought I’d best bring it in.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Dean mumbles through numb lips. “So you didn’t see who left it?”

Cas recaps his highlighter and drops it in the spine of his book. “No. What’s wrong?”

Dean remembers Cas’ words last week. Words that Dean wasn’t supposed to hear. Cas wants Dean to back off and that’s what Dean should be doing. Not pushing his problems onto his uninterested roommate. 

Dean forces a wobbly smile. His chest aches with the lie he’s about to tell his friend. “Nothing, just wanted to know who to thank, y’know? It’s a super thoughtful gift.”

_Yeah, if those thoughts are homicidal ones._

“Oh?” Cas asks, and if Dean didn’t know better, he’d assume that the weird note in Cas’ voice was due to jealousy. Luckily, Dean does know better and it’s _definitely_ not that.

“Yeah,” Dean says, internally debating whether to visit the RA now or in the morning. “Don’t worry about it at all, man.” He glances down at the photo again.

_Now. Now is good._

Wiping his clammy palms off on his jeans, Dean tells Cas, “I’ll be right back.” He doesn’t even try to think up an excuse, can’t force his brain out of the loop of _holyfuckingfuck_.

Cas tilts his head and squints in that unreadable, intense way of his, a shadow behind earnest blue.

Dean steps into the hallway and it's dark, except for a small sliver of light escaping from the creep's room, whose door is ajar. 

Shit.

_Or the morning. The morning is better._


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To those of you letting me know that you don't trust me/where this fic is going: You're right not to :).

**Present day, The Haunted Fucking Mansion**

For all of Dean’s issues — and man, are there _a lot_ — he’s not a coward. He understands the wisdom of a tactical retreat, the importance of never turning your back in a communal shower block, but at the same time, he’s more than willing to run headlong into danger if someone he gives a shit about is in trouble.

So yeah, definitely not a coward — just selective when it comes to valorous behavior. 

Currently, nobody he cares about is in danger. Which means there’s absolutely no fucking reason on hell or earth for him to venture into this creepy-ass hotel. 

Literally, _none._

Yet here he is, along with four other dumbasses, standing at the foot of the porch steps, peering into the darkness of the inn’s doorway, actually _considering_ it. 

“Garth,” Charlie shoves at Garth’s shoulder. “As the token straight, you get to go first.”

Garth begins to splutter out a protest, until Benny butts in with, “Hey, I’m straight too, y’know.”

_And suicidal, apparently._

“College says otherwise, dude.” Dean flashes Benny a cheeky grin when he turns in his direction. “Hate to tell you, but sucking dick is kinda gay.”

Dean’s half expecting to receive a shot across the bow from Cas, but he’s apparently content to let that one slide. Instead, he asks Benny, all arched eyebrow and tone, “You actually _want_ to go first?”

And Dean thought Benny was the sensible one.

“Not particularly,” Benny admits. “But I ain’t standin’ out here all day either.”

_Why the fuck not? The chances of survival appear to be in our favor out here._

“Shouldn’t we get our stuff out of the car first?” Garth asks, because he’s not a coward either, but he _is_ occasionally slow on the uptake and probably just now realizing that dragging them all to their deaths includes his.

“Nah, we can leave that in there until we’ve had a look around,” Charlie answers, mirth in her voice.

Flippant and wry in that sharp way Cas perfected years ago, he suggests, “Here’s an option: We could always _not_ look around and instead drive back the way we came.”

Cas’ tone stirs something bone-deep in Dean; this relentless urge to push back and be a dick, be contrary, just ‘cause he can and it’s _Cas,_ so instead of agreeing like any sane person would, he bumps Cas’ shoulder with his own. “C’mon, Cas, where’s your sense of adventure?”

“It lost out to my sense of self-preservation.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Benny growls and starts the climb up the steps. At the top, he looks over his shoulder. “Y’all comin’ or you just gonna stand there and grow roots?”

It’d be pretty rude to let Benny get murdered by himself, so with a disgruntled sigh, Dean follows his friend. As he strides across the porch, the boards wobble and creak beneath his boots. They were strong enough to bear Benny’s weight, but it’s still a nerve-wracking fifteen seconds until he reaches the safety of the foyer’s marble floor.

Cas is the next one inside, then Charlie, and finally Garth. They all stand stock-still at the threshold as if the floor is made of lava. Nobody speaks. Only their heads move as they look around for a pop-up murderer and listen for the sound of a chainsaw.

Enough daylight slants through the windows for Dean to be able to see a staircase to the left, an open room beyond it, and the lobby and lounge area to his right. Except for the L-shaped registration desk and the numbered cubby-holes behind it, the huge room is bare. 

The dark, paneled walls were once most likely decorated with creepy-ass heirloom pictures and probably a dead animal head or two. There probably would have been some furniture scattered about; easy chairs, lamp tables. Maybe even sofas and a rug in front of the broad stone fireplace — which is still equipped with andirons, a screen, and a set of pokers.

_Huh. It’s amazing nobody’s made off with them, sold them on Pawn Stars or some shit._

Charlie’s camera shutter whirs and a flash goes off in the darkness.

Everyone flinches, and Benny curses loudly.

Pleased with herself, Charlie declares, “This place is bitchin’!”

Cas twists around, scowling, and shushes her like the librarian he would have been in another life. 

Facetious as always, Charlie moves forward ever so slowly on tiptoes, lifting her knees high, setting her feet down gingerly, her lips pursed — a parody of silent sneaking. She stops next to Dean and grins conspiratorially at him as she pulls the photo out of the ejector slot. He grins back, always pleased to be complicit in pissing Cas off. 

It’s not like he even has to try these days.

They’ve always known how to get under each other’s skin, how to wind one another into angsty knots. It used to result in Dean's ass getting covered in red handprints, but now? Now he just receives The Glare™.

Which, whilst still enjoyable, is nowhere near as much fun as not being able to sit down for a couple of days.

_Nope. Nuh-uh. Focus._

Right.

Other than the pounding of his own heartbeat, Dean can hear nothing but sounds from outside: birds chirping, the rustle of the wind through the trees.

No chainsaws or maniacal laughter.

“Hey, it really is pretty decent in here,” Garth says, surprised as the rest of them. He leaves the foyer and walks over the hardwood floor toward the registration desk. “It’s better than I thought it’d be.”

_Better?_

Sure, it’s not a complete shithole, but nor is it anything other than what Dean pictured an abandoned hotel in the mountains to look like.

Which is to say, creepy as fuck, and absolutely not one of his top-five destinations for a relaxing week away.

Voicing Dean’s thoughts aloud, Cas concedes, “It could have been a lot worse. It’s still rather eerie, though.”

Holding her camera to her eye, Charlie says, “It’s a deserted hotel in a remote location. It’s _supposed_ to be creepy as balls.” The flash goes off again.

“Mission accomplished,” Cas mutters, following Garth. He leans across the registration desk, stretching over the counter with the long line of his body, and Dean absolutely, resolutely is not looking at the glorious swell of his ass. 

It’s _right_ there though, perfect as ever, and Benny appears at Dean’s side, acknowledging Dean’s line of sight with an unimpressed eyebrow raise.

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean tells him, all unrepentant sinner.

Cas lifts one leg behind himself on the desk and strains to see what’s on the other side. He pushes himself away and shakes his head. “Nothing.”

“The more nothin’, the better,” Benny says.

As Cas walks alongside the desk and around Garth, he glances down at the front of his faded and worn-soft shirt. It’s the ‘...And Justice For All’ Metallica shirt Dean got him back in college, when they found out Cas had been accepted into Berkeley’s law school.

Admittedly, he fills it out a bit better now, which is both a blessing and a curse.

Cas brushes down the front of the design with his open palm. Turning toward the others, he frowns. He picks at his shirt, pulling it away from his body. He gazes at the taut, slanted cloth.

It looks a little dusty, but not especially dirty, so what—

_Oh. That’s the point._

“Uh-oh,” Charlie says at the same time. “Looks like you don’t have to worry about your lack of shirts after all, Cas. Not much anyways.”

Cas brushes his shirt a couple more times, and the traces of dust vanish. “That counter should have been filthy.”

“Efficient maid service?” Dean jokes, in a totally transparent attempt to cover his unease. He turns, studying the floor. Near the door and window are some leaves. But not many. And there’s no broken glass, at all, beneath the window.

Almost like somebody made this place _presentable_.

_This bodes well._

Charlie wanders across the room to the fireplace and leans down to get a proper look. “It’s clean inside. A little sooty maybe, but there’s no ashes and no wood chunks.”

“So there’s only like an eighty percent chance that the somebody who so thoughtfully cleaned up for us is here right now,” Dean says. “Awesome.”

“Oh, but where’s your sense of adventure, Dean?” Cas mocks, pleased with himself. In lieu of an actual answer, Dean gives him the finger.

“Such wit,” Cas declares dryly. 

_Asshole._

“Oh, fuck you, Cas—”

“—Quit flirtin’, you two,” Benny interrupts, over by the doors to the left of the fireplace. One of them is open and leads into what looks like a dining area, the other is closed and marked with a grimy and barely legible ‘Staff Only’ sign. “I’m gonna guess that it might be the kitchen through here.”

“Only one way to find out!” Charlie chirps and, camera in one hand, growing collection of polaroids in the other, she pushes past Benny and into the first of many rooms they have to survive.

  
  


***

Turns out, that, as usual, Benny’s right. It _is_ a kitchen. An industrial-sized one complete with cupboards, counters, a pantry, large sinks, a walk-in freezer, and empty spaces where refrigerators and stoves once stood.

It also has cobwebs, dust balls, and layers of grime on its countertops and linoleum floor.

_Yeuch._

“Looks like the maid missed this place,” Dean jokes.

“She doesn’t do kitchens,” Cas murmurs, twisting a faucet handle. It squeaks, but no water comes from the spout. “No water. I suppose there’s no electricity either.” He looks around, seemingly searching for somewhere to wipe his dirty hand. 

Without thinking, Dean steps up close to Cas, offering him a corner of his flannel overshirt. “Here. Use this.”

“Thanks,” Cas says quietly, rubbing his hand off on the fabric. He bumps gently into Dean, the soft press of his side brushing Dean’s arm. Their eyes catch and hold, and it’s like a snap in the air, the charged connection between them stealing Dean’s breath and cerebral function, something squeezing tight in his chest. 

Goddamn. 

Suddenly, the years are everything and nothing.

_Don’t you fucking dare go there. No. Bad Dean._

“If you two need a room, there’s plenty around,” Benny mutters on a long-suffering eye roll, shattering the moment. Cas staggers back like Dean’s a chemical spill, hazardous to his health, and Dean can fucking relate.

Abruptly reanimated now that Cas isn’t looking at him, _into_ him, searing and pervasive, Dean drags a breath of stale air down into his lungs, attempts to rake the jagged pieces of himself back together.

He's had years of practice, but it never gets easier.

Garth tugs open the door of the walk-in freezer, glances inside quickly, and shuts it. 

“Something in there?” Charlie asks. 

“I can’t see anything,” Garth answers on a huff, “It’s too dark.”

“Did you bring any flashlights?” Dean asks, an unnecessary edge of irritation to his voice that has nothing to with Garth or this fucking hotel. “Or _anything_ useful that means we could actually stay up here for a few days if we wanted to?”

Which, _obviously_ , they don’t.

“Duh,” Garth says, then adds a little defensively, “I’m not an idiot.”

Dean would beg to differ, and judging by the skeptical looks directed toward Garth by everyone else, he’s not the only one.

“Elaborate,” Charlie demands, slapping the polaroids down on the nearest kitchen surface before folding her arms across her Elvira shirt.

“I brought flashlights, a huge case of water, some beer, an entire cooler of food, snacks, eating utensils, a camping stove... I even brought one of those portable BBQs. I thought of everything. Did you not see all the crap in the trunk when you were loading up your bags at the airport?”

To be fair, when Dean tossed his bag in, he wasn’t really paying attention, and he doubts the others were either. 

A theory confirmed by the quick-fire questioning that follows. 

“Toilet paper?” Cas tries.

“First-aid kit?” Benny adds.

“Fuel?” Charlie hopes.

“Lighters and matches?” Dean finishes.

Garth looks like he’s doing a mental calculation in his head. “Errr… yes, no, yes, no.”

_Eh. Two outta four ain’t bad._

Everyone heaves a relieved sigh at the toilet paper revelation. Dean wasn’t looking forward to accidentally shoving poison ivy up his butt while blindly searching around for something to wipe with. 

That kind of red ass definitely ain’t one of his kinks.

  
  


***

The five of them spend the rest of the afternoon exploring the dimly lit hallways and corridors. There’s gotta be around two hundred rooms spread over four floors, so Dean’s not surprised to find that, apparently, the maid doesn’t do bedrooms either.

The rooms are in various states of disrepair, some with doors barely hanging onto the broken hinges. The metal room numbers nailed through the wood are corroded, with many dangling dangerously loose or missing. A few of the rooms have connecting doors that are nothing more than splintered, spiked wood. Most of the bedrooms are bare, but there are a few that house mildewed mattresses and broken bedsprings. The bathrooms are different colors from room to room, and in one memorable pink atrocity, Dean and Garth discover a cockroach squeezing its shiny black body down the drain.

Garth damn near jumps straight into Dean’s arms, Scooby Doo-style. 

Of course, Charlie gets a picture and Dean does his best Shaggy, ‘zoinks, Scoob!’ impression, which has Benny and Charlie shaking their heads, but more importantly, it has a reluctant smile curving Cas’ mouth. 

Along the way, ducking in and out of musty rooms, Dean counts how many graffitied dicks they find — like a phallus-based scavenger hunt. By the time they reach number twenty-seven, everyone — Cas included — is playing along, critiquing the artwork like they’re at the fucking Louvre. 

To add to the overall murder-slash-teenage-retreat-to-smoke-weed vibe of the place, each floor has its own mini-creep factor.

On the first, there’s a library with built-in, empty bookshelves. There’s a fireplace, smaller than the one downstairs in the lobby, on the north side. At the front, some limbs from the fallen branch on the porch reach through the shattered window. There are random stacks of books piled on the hardwood. Dean crouches down in front of one, blows the dust off the top book and picks it up to read the title.

Laughing, he turns on his haunches to face his friends, grit under the toe of his boot. “The Shining.”

Charlie snaps a picture. 

On the threadbare carpet covering the staircase that curves from the second to third floor, there are old postcards featuring the hotel in its heyday. Most of the blank sides have nothing on them, except for one, which, in a shaky blood-red scrawl, reads, ‘GET OUT WILE YOU STILL CAN.’

“Who knew ghosts had such poor spelling?” Cas mutters archly, flipping the postcard over in his hand. 

On the fourth floor, it’s Benny who discovers some kind of failed demon-summoning ritual in the hallway outside room number 437.

Well, they _hope_ it failed. ‘Cause the last thing they need is Yog-Sothoth here to fuck up humanity’s shit.

There’s an elder sign clumsily painted in red, the charred remains of some animal — a squirrel, Garth seems to think, with his absolutely zero experience in either zoology or forensic science — in the center of the floor, and the pervasive, stale stench of what could either be sage or weed. 

Dean’s money’s on the latter. 

All-in-all, it’s pretty much what Dean expected from an abandoned hotel in the mountains.

As the darkness begins to creep in around the edges of the day, stealing away the light, the five of them make an executive decision to return to the car, get some food and the flashlights, and take a vote on whether they’re gonna at least spend the night. 

They start the trek back down, discovering a few more detailed dick drawings on the way, and, in the grimy corridor beneath the stairs to the second floor, they find some old phone booths, the receivers dangling by their cords. Charlie snaps a photo and then lifts one of the phones to her ear. “No dial tone.”

“A horror movie staple,” Dean points out sagely.

“Of course, because it has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that this place has been deserted for thirty years,” Cas remarks, then, to temper his lack of fun-ness, adds, “Though these days, the lack of cell reception is the actual trope.”

True.

“Yep,” Garth says, holding his cell high in the air. “It’s official. No signal.”

_Because of course._

  
  


***

They wander outside in single file. It’s good to breathe fresh air for the first time in several hours, and it’s _especially_ good to see the car still parked in the lot. 

The five of them stroll towards the Jeep, with Benny and Garth reaching it first, Charlie close behind, and Cas and Dean bringing up the rear.

“Do you want to stay?” Cas asks Dean as they walk shoulder-to-shoulder, helplessly drawn and bound back together by the thread of who they are to each other.

“I dunno, man,” Dean admits on a shrug. “Could be fun, I guess. Y’know, hang out, tell some stupid-ass ghost stories for a couple of days. But then again, we could all get murdered. So, y’know.” He holds out his hands like he’s weighing his options, and Cas’ lips twitch against a smile. 

“You make a compelling argument.”

“Coming from a lawyer? Jeez, I’m honored.”

Cas slants him an amused look. “To be fair, I’m just a lowly environmental lawyer.”

“Yeah, yeah. You’re into all that moon-hugging shit.” Then, before he can think better of it, he adds, “Hey, I wonder what hardass Hardin would think if he could see you now, giving a crap about the personhood of rivers, like the hippie I always knew you were.”

Professor Hardin (and yes, Dean had many a belly laugh at that name in college, and even now from time to time) was convinced that Cas’ inherent talent for the nitty gritty (aka boring shit) of the legal system would make him the perfect candidate to follow his oddly tiny footsteps into the field of administrative law. 

Instead, Cas, after earning his JD, bounced around a couple of firms and areas, before deciding to specialize in natural resources and sustainability.

Although Dean and Cas had broken up by then, Dean was still immensely proud of him. Eschewing the pressure from his mentor and peers and doing something actually worthwhile with his intelligence is something that Dean will forever admire about him.

Of course, that’s not the only thing Dean admires about him. No, siree, ‘cause Cas is still the most beautiful thing Dean’s ever seen, and already his resolve about _not going there_ is slipping. 

Even with their occasional sniping at one another. Maybe because of it, ‘cause Cas when he’s pissed off and pink-cheeked still gets Dean’s motor running like nothing or _nobody_ else.

“He’d most likely rant about the lingering ambiguity of federal statutes and then go off on a tangent about the conspiracy of sliced bread.”

Dean snorts a laugh through his nose. “Oh my god, do you remember that time when I came to pick you up after class and he kept us there for like a half hour telling us about the woman who wouldn’t listen to him at the grocery store? He just _had_ to make her realize that the branded stuff came from the same factory as the unbranded stuff?”

Cas smiles fondly, the edges of his glance soft. “I’d heard that story at least five times before. And probably another five times after.”

Dean didn’t get to be around for that, and it shouldn’t hurt as much as it does. Their breakup, which happened a few weeks after that night, was agonizing and serrated; a pain Dean has yet to feel the equal of. 

The mess they made of each other when they were together paled in comparison to the carnage of their split; it was like Dean had to tear his soul asunder and stitch it back together in the pitch darkness. The rip wasn’t clean though; they still possess fibers of one another. Parts of Cas’ soul still cling to Dean, fused with who he is now. He doesn’t doubt that it’s the same for Cas.

It’s why nobody else could even hope to understand. It’s why being here, where there’s no distractions, nothing but _Cas_ and the barbed ruin of themselves, is such an epically bad idea.

_Fuck._

Benny, Charlie, and Garth stand in the waning sunlight by the car, talking softly. As Dean and Cas approach, the other three turn their attention to them. 

“Do you want to leave?” Charlie asks them bluntly.

_Not so much anymore._

Shrugging, Dean walks around to the trunk of the car. He lifts the tailgate to check that a) Garth really did pack all the shit he said he did, and b) that it’s still here.

He did and it is.

“Benny does,” Garth says, face twisted in misery. 

“I just don’t think it’s safe,” Benny explains, slanting a glance in Cas’ direction, believing himself to have an ally. 

Cas, though, is watching Dean with the kind of intense focus that used to make his dick throb. “It might not be,” he says eventually. “I’m okay with staying though.”

_Fuck 2: Return of the Fuck._

“Me too,” Dean says instantly. “I mean, it’s one night, right?”

“Looks like you’ve been outvoted by the lovebirds,” Charlie informs Benny. “And anyway, we came all the way out here to see this place. For what it’s worth, I vote that we stay here overnight. See how it goes.”

“How it’ll go,” Benny says, “is that we’ll all be dead before mornin’.” He looks at the four of them and sighs. “Fine. We’ll stay. But the beer you brought better be good, Garth.”

  
  


***

  
  


Cas and Dean carry the huge cooler between them, Benny shoulders the cases of water and beer, Charlie gets the toilet rolls, whiskey and vodka, and Garth carries the snacks, the flashlights, and everything else aside from the BBQ; they leave that in the trunk for tomorrow. 

_If we live to see it._

“Where we settin’ up?” Benny asks over his shoulder at the foot of the porch steps. “Dining room?”

It seems like a good idea to create their base camp on the ground floor in case they need to make a quick exit, but at the same time, they’d be easily accessible to any ne'er-do-wells. 

“Yeah,” Garth says. “We can always find somewhere else to sleep, right?”

Everyone murmurs their assent and traipses up the stairs. 

Inside, the inn seems darker than before. And hotter. There’s the sweet scent of decaying wood that Dean hadn’t noticed before; probably too overloaded on all his other senses.

The odor isn’t unpleasant, in itself. But the rotting wood smell reminds Dean of the bugfuck crazy decision the four of them made ten minutes ago. This place smells of deterioration and ruin and they voted to spend the night here?

Insanity, pure and fucking simple.

Still, he catches Cas’ heated gaze again as he walks backward into the dining room with the cooler so Cas can go forward, and he figures that it’s probably not the craziest decision he’ll be making tonight.

Inside, there’s a sliding door to the rear of the room, leading fuck knows where — they’ve only been up, not down — and the way the decor is almost sliding off the walls is like something out of Silent fucking Hill. Like the rest of this place, in its heyday, it was almost certainly opulent and sleek, darkly romantic, but now? Now it’s ten kinds of macabre.

If scary-slash-creepy was on a scale from the guy in the fish suit in The Horror of Party Beach to The Gentlemen in that Buffy Episode, then this place is a dead-eyed child telling you he sees dead people.

Benny rests the water case on the floor, stacks the beer on top of it. Dean and Cas set down the cooler in front of the ornate fireplace. As Charlie dumps her armfuls of stuff, one of the toilet rolls tumbles to the grimy floor and unrolls until it hits Cas’ boot.

He looks down. “I’m not using that one.”

“Not it,” Dean says touching his nose. 

“Not it.” Charlie does the same.

“Not it.” As does Benny.

Which only leaves Garth, who pouts and drops all the stuff he’s carrying where he stands. “Come on guys, that’s not fair.”

“You must adhere to the rules of ‘not it’ at all times,” Charlie says sternly. “Plus, we’ve got enough here to wipe the asses of the Imperial Army, so that can be our emergency roll.”

“You’re definitely eating that bag of chips though.” Dean points at the Cheetos crushed beneath a flashlight at Garth’s feet.

“Right, who’s comin’ back to the car with me to get our sleepin’ bags and luggage? The rest of us can set up in here.” Even if anybody wanted to volunteer, Benny doesn’t give them time to speak up before he says, “Dean. C’mon.”

  
  


***

Back outside in the twilight, Dean and Benny walk toward the car once more. They’re halfway across the lot when Benny launches his ambush. “What the hell are you doin’, Dean? Makin’ goo-goo eyes at him. I thought you were done with all that shit.”

“The fuck are you talking about, Benny?”

Dean knows, of course he knows. And he knows exactly how all their friends feel about it, though Benny’s always been the most vocal. Garth tends to keep his opinion to himself unless specifically asked, and Charlie’s all for whatever makes Dean happy, even if she doesn’t necessarily approve.

A twig snaps sharply under Benny’s shoe. “You and Cas. I know you guys have history, but c’mon, brother, you can’t be seriously considerin’ goin’ there again. It was unhealthy. I get that you guys loved each other—”

 _Loved. Past tense._

Like that shit ever goes away.

“—But you know you’re not good for each other, right?”

The thing is, Benny’s not wrong. Everything else ceased to exist when Dean and Cas were in that place together. It was dangerous and intoxicating and Dean misses it like hell even as he knows how thoroughly terrifying it is. He's kept these feelings walled up for years now, but just being here, being on the adrenaline kick that comes with this kind of stupidity, is reminding him of everything that he and Cas used to be. 

He can feel himself sinking back into it — the mania that was him and Cas.

Dean squeezes his eyes shut against the avalanche of memories: the scent of Cas’ skin, the solid heat of him, the taste of his come.

Fuck. 

“Yeah,” he grinds out, rubbing hard at his right eye with the heel of his hand. “You’re right.”

  
  


***

  
  


The last, faint light from the windows barely cuts through the gloom of the dining room. The five of them sit in a circle, like every teen horror flick where the kids tell each other spooky tales right before the antagonist shows up. Their towels and sleeping bags are laid out — the only thing between them and a million creepy crawly things. The fireplace is lit and they’ve got a couple of those newfangled camping lights set up all around them, providing just enough light to cast their faces in stark relief.

Dean totally isn’t staring across the circle at the sharp angles of Cas’ face, the exotic shadowed sweep of his cheekbone. Cas returns Dean’s not-stare with one of his own, brutal in its ferocity. 

When Dean and Benny returned with the luggage, the others had already finished setting up and Cas had started to lay his sleeping bag next to Dean’s. Of course, Dean, like the coward he usually likes to think he isn’t, beat a hasty retreat and settled himself between Charlie and Garth. He thought he’d be safe. Or at least, saf _er_. He and Cas wouldn’t be leaning in close, unable to stay out of each other's space even after all these years.

Unfortunately, though, this is actually worse, ‘cause Cas and his laser focus are making Dean squirm and all this not-staring is slowly disintegrating his resolve.

And Cas, the asshole, knows it.

Cross-legged, Garth reaches for the pan atop the tiny gas-powered stove, plucking the last of the hot dog sausages out of the water. He doesn’t even bother with the final bun, just chews loudly on the meat.

“And I thought Dean was disgusting,” Cas gripes, but there’s an amused curl to his mouth.

See? Asshole.

“Hey, fuck you,” Dean says, half insult, half invitation, faux-glaring at Cas across the circle.

“Again with the razor-sharp wit,” Cas returns, eyes glittering obsidian in the low light. 

_Fuck._

Dean’s done for before they’ve even started. 

“Cool it, you two!” Charlie orders sharply, “Don’t make me get the water gun out.”

“You brought a water gun?” Garth asks, sounding hopeful.

“No.” Charlie inclines her head first at Cas, then at Dean. “But _they_ didn’t know that.”

“Pity,” Benny says, digging around in the cooler, “Could’ve been useful.”

“For fucking what?” Dean asks, finally tearing his eyes away from Cas. “Pretty sure most serial killers are impervious to water.”

“There’s gotta be a supernatural entity that hates water, though?” Benny says. “Right?”

“Jason in Freddy versus Jason?” Dean suggests.

The dramatic, disgusted noise Garth lets out stuns everyone into silence. 

In his periphery, Dean can see Charlie’s shoulders shaking. Across from him, Cas pulls his bottom lip between his teeth. Benny’s not making direct eye contact with anyone.

Charlie’s the first one to break, sending them all into peals of laughter, like they’re twenty and dumb (instead of thirty-four and dumb), and it’s kinda cathartic after the tension of the day.

“That of which we shall not speak,” Cas intones once they’ve calmed down, and everyone cracks up again. 

Still wheezing, Dean makes the grabby-hand motion, and Benny tosses him a beer.

“So, if we’re all horror movie archetypes, which ones do you think we are?” Dean grins as he pops the tab. “I’ll go first. Benny’s the final girl. The super sensible one who lives to face the showdown with the killer at the end.”

“I’ll take it,” Benny mutters, then adds under his breath, “Long as I don’t have to do the purity thing.”

Dean takes a sip of his overly-fizzy-from-its-flight-across-the-room beer, bubbles nearly going up his nose. He wipes his mouth on the back of his shirt sleeve and turns his attention to Garth. “Garth is the super nerdy, meta one who dies despite his knowledge. Think Randy in Scream.”

“Sucks to be me,” Garth says, but he doesn’t seem put out about it.

“Charlie’s the stoner.” Dean gets an elbow to the ribs for that, but no real objection. “She’s just chill as fuck until there’s an axe in her head.”

“What about Cas?” Charlie asks, and Dean can hear the grin in her voice, the dick.

“Cas is either the murderer or the reluctant hero. It could go either way.”

“That makes you the promiscuous girl who gets killed off in the first twenty minutes, then,” Cas points out with no small amount of delight and malice, which just proves Dean’s killer-based theory. 

“Sounds good to me,” Dean says, “As long as I don’t go out Tatum-style, stuck in a cat-flap, ‘cause that would be super undignified.”

“ _Now_ you’re starting to worry about your dignity?” Cas snipes, silhouetted by the fireplace behind him. “I think you’re about twelve years too late.”

Garth chokes out a kind of wheezy snort at that. 

“You wanna go down this route? ‘Cause if we’re talking about the loss of dignity, I would say yours was when I blew you for the first time and you came in about fifteen seconds.”

Charlie and Benny both go, “Ooooh.”

Cas narrows his eyes and Dean smirks, victorious. He takes another sip, the lukewarm beer tasting like triumph. He smacks his lips, says ‘ahhh’ in the most obnoxious way possible.

“Just for that,” Cas informs him, “I’ll make sure to murder you with a CD.”

Garth claps, delighted. “Ohh, Castiel, pulling one out of the archives there with Hellraiser 3!”

Dean shakes his head, but he’s grinning. “Uncalled for, Cas. Un-fucking-called for.”

  
  


***

  
  


After they clean up the best they can after their meal (aka, shoving everything to one side for them to deal with in the morning), Garth produces his iPad and a portable projector from his pack. 

“Man, you really thought of about seventy-five percent of things,” Dean says, bordering on impressed. 

“Well, I had help,” Garth admits. 

Dean wants to ask, but at the same time, doesn’t. They all know that Garth is currently separated from his wife, allegedly because he was having an affair, but they don’t know the hows, whys, wheres, etc.

Truth be told, he never imagined that shit of Garth. Out of all of them, he’s probably the most loyal, the one least likely to stray.

Still, Dean’s not gonna ask. It’s up to Garth to volunteer the information.

Charlie, however, has no such qualms. “Oh yeah? Help from the homewrecker?”

Garth pauses, mid-setup, and looks at her. “Don’t call her that.”

“Well, it’s what she is. I mean, I don’t know how you could do that to Bess.”

“Guys,” Benny butts in, exasperated. “C’mon. We’re supposed to be havin’ fun. Let’s just watch the movie, huh?”

“What movie is it?” Cas asks quietly, metaphorically tiptoeing around the uncomfortable boundaries of Charlie and Garth’s mutual glare. 

“Scream,” Garth answers, only slightly huffily. 

Wanting a way out of this awkward tension, Dean muses idly, “I’m not sure who I had the bigger crush on. Sid or Billy.”

“That explains so much,” Benny mutters, which earns him a side-eye from Cas. 

Garth has shuffled away on his knees to set up the movie. With a brief ‘I’ll handle it’ glance at the others, Dean follows him. Everybody starts talking amongst themselves, and Dean curls a hand over Garth’s shoulder. “You okay, man?”

Ignoring Dean’s question and fiddling with the projector cable, Garth points at the blank wall, which has a rotten piece of wood hanging at a forty-five-degree angle. “We need to remove that,” he says, “or the picture will be distorted.”

Dean’s time to shine.

“Multi-tool to the rescue!” Dean says, pushing to his feet.

Behind him, the talking comes to an abrupt halt.

“Don’t stop on my account,” Dean insists, examining the wood. There’s a couple of bent and rusted nails keeping it in position. The nails don’t have heads, so Dean selects the needle-nose pliers.

“Why the fuck have you still got that multi-tool, chief?” Benny asks. “It’s creepy as hell.”

“Eh,” Dean says. “It’s a reminder of the time that somebody liked me enough to go to the trouble of following my every move.” It’s not entirely a lie, though being so flippant about it now is both a coping mechanism and a pretty transparent attempt to goad Cas that little bit more.

“That’s fucked,” Garth tells him seriously.

“Yeah,” Charlie agrees, pulling a ‘yeuch’ face. “Of all the insane shit you’ve said over the years — and there’s been a lot—”

“—like the Jason X movie not being that bad—” Garth interjects.

“—That is right up there. Jesus, Dean.”

_At least Charlie and Garth are agreeing on something again._

Cas is unusually quiet. Dean looks back over his shoulder, hoping to gauge his reaction, but Cas’ face is an impassive mask. “You not weighing in on this? Woulda thought you’d have something to say about it all.”

“It’s none of my business,” Cas replies, monotone, and yeah, _it’s not_ , but that wasn’t the response Dean was expecting.

Huh. Interesting.

“Look. It’s just a fucking multi-tool." It's not _just_ anything, never was. "One that’s coming in pretty useful right about now,” Dean tells them all. “So unless you don’t wanna watch this movie, I suggest you all shut the hell up.”

It works. For now, at least. And Dean gets back to work. Using the needle-nose pliers to grip the nail, he slowly pries the first one out by pulling up on the nail and using the tip of the pliers as a lever.

He repeats the process with the other two nails until the wood is free.

A chorus of cheers goes up behind him and Dean pockets the multi-tool, before retaking his seat between Benny and Cas. 

***

Right at the point in the movie where Billy appears at Sid’s window, Cas leans in closer, the heady, warm scent of him painfully familiar and foreign all at once, his voice a low hum that has Dean’s skin goosepimpling. “Is that really why you kept it?”

Dean’s response never makes it past his lips. Because in the next second, there’s a sound. A loud, heavy clunk, like a pipe hitting the ground. It comes from upstairs. 

Dean’s insides turn to ice, a real hit of fear rushing up thick and fast.

_Oh fuck._

It _could_ just be something detaching and clattering to the floor. This place is old and decrepit as fuck. 

A series of clangs starts up. It’s rhythmic. 

Deliberate. 

“Well,” Dean says, looking to the ceiling. “I guess the maid just clocked in.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's not just the horror tropes I'm really leaning into, folks.

**Fourteen years ago, Dean’s own personal hell (UC Berkeley, but with stalkers and awkwardness)**

  
  


“I feel like you’re avoiding me.”

Aside from getting buried alive or murdered by the weirdo who touches him in the shower, _this, right here,_ is Dean’s worst nightmare.

He was really hoping to make it through the remainder of his sophomore year without having to have this conversation with Cas, rehashing his humiliation.

They’ve managed to steer clear of that wreckage-waiting-to-happen in the last week, and tonight, Dean decided to study at the room for once, rather than retreating to the library or Jo’s. Mostly ‘cause he’s not trying to give his secret admirer the opportunity to take more photos of him. 

Now though, with Scorpions softly playing on the radio and Cas’ blue-eyed stare burning a hole in his soul, he’s beginning to wish he’d taken his chances with the stalker.

“I’m not,” Dean says slowly, groping around in the dark for the words. “Uh, I just—” he scratches the back of his neck with the end of his pen, squeezes his eyes shut. “I wanted to give you and Meg some privacy, y’know? The last thing you need is me hangin’ around when you’re tryna get laid, right?” The rough approximation of a laugh he manages to coax from his voicebox sounds so forced that he actually winces.

“We’re not together,” Cas says, so agonizingly sincere and endearingly awkward, that it makes the space behind Dean’s ribs ache. 

“Oh.” Dean stares down at his textbook like the mechanical properties of metal will somehow help him out here. “I’m sorry, man. It seemed like you really liked her.”

What Dean means by that is, Cas has never brought anyone back to their room before. He must have liked Meg enough to trust her with the task of getting Dean to back off.

Out of the corner of his eye, the two of them sitting shoulder to shoulder at their tiny desks, Dean sees Cas shrug. “She’s a good friend.”

Oh.

_Cas, you dog._

Dean’s a complete and utter hypocrite, because even though he hooks up on a regular basis, the thought of Cas — a dude who Dean wasn’t even sure had actually had sex until that night — doing it casually with anyone, literally _anyone_ other than Dean is somehow worse than if he’d been in love with Meg. 

But then, he did suspect that Cas was using her to let Dean know he wasn’t interested.

This just confirms it. 

“Cool,” Dean says, still not looking at his roommate.

There’s an expectant silence that Dean’s not in a hurry to fill. 

Cas, however, has no such qualms. “I’m sorry if I made you feel like your room is not yours.”

“No!” Dean hurries to clarify, finally glancing at Cas. Which is a _mistake_. Once he catches sight of the soft cling of his shirt to his biceps, the sprawl of his thick thighs, his strong, square hand clutching the pen poised over his notebook, ready to write something urbane about rational choice theory, Dean’s lost all over again. 

_Fuck._

He clears his throat. “Um. It’s not that at all, I swear. I just—” Fuckity fuck fuck fuck. “—I get it? Why you did what you did. With Meg—”

Cas blinks guilelessly wide eyes, “Why I did…?”

But this crazy train ain’t getting derailed for anything. “—Um. And I’m sorry. I promise I won’t be weird for the rest of the semester.” Once the words start coming, they won’t stop; they just keep pouring out of him, even though his brain is screaming at his mouth to shut up. “I mean, if you want another roommate, I totally understand.” Cas’ silence tells Dean everything he needs to know and it stings beyond the telling of it. “I tell you what, I’ll go to the office right now. It’s pretty late in the year, so they might not be able to switch us out.” He pushes to his feet, slamming his textbook shut. “But I can always just crash on a friend’s couch until then. It’s no big deal. I’m sorry, Cas. I—” He’s babbling, trying to shove his book into his backpack through the hot blur of tears at the back of his eyes, embarrassment and shame and hurt making his chest tight.

Strap of his backpack on his shoulder, Dean forces a watery smile. “Um, I’ll let you know how it goes at the office. That’s if you don’t mind me texting you, still? I guess I could always delete your number, but I’ll have to come back and collect my stuff at some point, so I should probably keep it until then, right? So we can coordinate and you don’t have to see me.”

Cas’ plush mouth rounds on nothing. Any words that he might have had don’t come, and Dean takes it for what it is.

Agreement.

_He doesn’t want you. He hates the sight of you._

“Right. Yeah. Okay,” Dean chokes out. “I’ll um, leave you to it. Sorry.”

He’s across the room in record time, but stops at the door to give Cas a few precious seconds to object, to ask Dean not to leave.

He doesn’t. 

Dean closes the door behind himself with a soft click.

  
  


***

  
  


“You’re a fucking idiot.”

“Sure, Jo. Tell me what you really think.”

“You’re a _complete_ fucking idiot.”

Dean sighs, lets his head drop back onto her pillow. She stares at him from her seat at her desk, like she’s the shrink and he’s the patient. Except there ain’t a psychiatrist out there with Twister bed sheets.

(He would be concerned about who else has been in this bed, but Jo makes a point of not bringing dates back here, partially ‘cause her roommate is apparently a psychopath, and partially because she — like Dean — just has a weird thing about people seeing her living space).

“He didn’t stop me, Jo. He didn’t even try.”

“Did you give him the chance? ‘Cause it sounds to me like you just spewed a stream of consciousness at him and then ran away before he could respond.”

It’s possible that’s what happened.

“I thought so,” she says, smug. “So, I repeat. You’re a complete fucking idiot.”

“Can I stay here?” Dean asks miserably. "I'll even let you be the big spoon."

Jo rolls her eyes fondly. “You’re lucky you’re cute, Winchester.”

  
  


***

The next morning dawns bright and optimistic. Both things Dean isn’t really feeling. 

He’s got a stalker, a roommate who — even if he doesn’t hate Dean’s guts — is at the very least thinking Dean’s mentally unbalanced, and, to top it all off, he’s got four tests to study for, two essays to write, and a group presentation to do.

Things could be better.

Jo’s been up for a while, already showered and dressed, and Dean is ever-so-slightly jealous of her ability to go about her morning routine completely unhindered by existential angst. 

Dean swings his legs over the edge of the bed, pushing himself into a sitting position. His boxer briefs have ridden up one ass-cheek in the night, his hair is flattened against his scalp on one side — on the other, it’s a riotous mess — and his mouth tastes like something was born, lived a tumultuous life, and then died in it. 

Again, things could be better.

“I think you should sack up and tell him.”

Of course, Dean had mostly discounted the notion of things getting worse, because, well, how could they?

Turns out, Jo has the answer to that one. 

“Tell who what?” Dean asks absently, scanning the floor for his clothes. He slides to his knees, not quite feeling bipedal enough yet to simply walk to pick up his stuff. 

“Cas. And he knows about your stalker issues, so there’s only one thing left to tell him, right?”

Dean freezes, on his hands and knees, ass in the air, as he scrabbles underneath her bed for his missing sock.

“Dean?”

_Shit._

Empty-handed, he turns around to face her, sitting on the floor, legs sprawled, with his back up against the bed frame. His expression must give something away, ‘cause she’s suddenly in his face, demanding, “ _Right_? You _have_ told him about the stalker?”

Dean’s a decently-muscled 6’1 to Jo’s slender 5’4, but if he were a betting man, he’d put it all on her. 

“... Not exactly, no.”

Jo reacts like yet another asshole has told her that girls don’t belong in STEM. “You what?! You haven’t told him that there’s a dangerous nutjob sending you stuff and grabbing you in the showers, because…? You’re embarrassed? Scared? An idiot?”

Dean smiles sheepishly. “All of the above?”

Standing over him, she slaps him on the shoulder, and Dean reflexively brings his arms up to shield himself. “You could be putting him in danger, you dumbass! What if he gets caught up in it somehow?”

It’s a good point, and one Dean’s agonized over. 

“I know, Jo, but—”

“—If you give me a wimpy excuse about not being able to talk to him, then I will hit you _again_ , Dean Winchester!” She lifts her palm to show that she means business. “Do not test me.”

Dean remains silent, arms still raised.

“Well?” she demands.

“You told me that if I give you a wimpy excuse, you’d hit me again, so I’m saying nothing.”

Wimpy excuses are all he’s got.

Jo drops her hand with a weary sigh. “I know we covered this last night, but you’re a fucking idiot. Please tell me that you’ve at least talked to your RA about it?”

“‘Course,” Dean answers, insulted. He finally lowers his arms, figuring it’s safe. “They said they couldn’t really do anything, suggested I go to the cops, which I did. Went to the local station, and was told that since I don’t actually know who it is, and there’s no threats, nothing malicious, there’s nothing they can do.” He huffs. “Taking photos and sending gifts doesn’t count as enough of a threat, _apparently._ ”

Jo scoffs. “Wow, that’s super ineffective. So they’ve gotta wait until he chops you into little pieces or something?”

“Pretty much.”

“Jesus, Dean. You’ve gotta tell Cas. Both things. The love thing _and_ the stalker thing.”

“That seems like a lot for eight-thirty on a Tuesday morning,” Dean says. “Can I not just tell him about the stalker thing for now and then tackle the love thing at a later date?”

Jo looks like she wants to smack him again, but counts to ten and thinks better of it. “Fine. But you’re calling him right here and now. I want to make sure you actually do it.”

Dean scowls, though he probably doesn’t look very intimidating, sitting on a scratchy dorm carpet in his verging-on-a-thong-boxers and a single sock. “I’m not a fucking child.”

“No? You could’ve fooled me. This is serious, Dean! You can’t just stick your head in the sand and pretend like it isn’t happening.”

_Why the hell not?_

He hasn’t exactly got a blueprint for this kind of shit. There’s no ‘how to be a stalkee’ handbook out there, and all that tangled up with finals and the whole Cas thing has Dean feeling like he’s going insane most days.

_Is that option still on the table?_

Could be a new and exciting way to handle things. 

Judging by the unimpressed glare Jo is leveling at him, insanity is _not_ an option.

“Okay,” he surrenders. “I’ll call him.”

Jo’s entire demeanor relaxes. “It’s the right thing to do.”

Dean’s little brother, Sam, has perfected the puppy-dog eyes over the years. Lesser known is Dean’s forlorn senior-dog-at-a-rescue-who’s-been-overlooked-one-too-many-times expression. 

It’s just as effective though. 

Or it is on people whose hearts aren’t made of stone.

Jo sticks out her hand to help Dean up. “Yeah, yeah. We all know you’re adorably pathetic. C’mon. Get up.”

He lets Jo pull him off the floor, deliberately making it more difficult than it needs to be in order to punish her for being sensible. But eventually, he’s up and sitting on the edge of the bed. 

Jo nudges him aside to sit next to him, making sure that he doesn’t chicken out. He reaches for his phone, switches it back on after he pointedly turned it off last night.

He’s got a little flashing voicemail icon at the top of his screen, but it’ll most likely be from Sam. He hasn’t called his brother in a while, probably should. Kid is starting to think about colleges — in particular, Stanford — and there’s no doubt that he’d be smart enough to get into any program of his choosing. Could be cool to have him up here for a visit so they can go check out colleges together.

Once everything has blown over of course. There’s no way he’s putting his kid brother at risk. 

And it’s with that realization he understands what an asshole he’s been with regards to Cas’ safety. He’s been so over his head about their awkwardness, he hadn’t stopped to fully consider the danger his friend might be in.

Jo’s right.

Taking a deep breath, Dean scrolls until he finds Cas’ number and hits the dial button. He listens to it ring. Just when he thinks it’s about to go to voicemail, the line clicks and he hears Cas’ slightly breathless, deep rumble. “Dean?”

“Yeah,” Dean says after a heartbeat. “Um, look, I’m really sorry. I know I said I wouldn’t call you or whatever, but there’s something you should know.”

Somehow, telling Cas about this makes it seem real. Cas is literally the last person in his small circle of friends to know, but he’s the _most important_. How Cas handles this will most likely let Dean know how _he_ should be handling it.

Cas doesn’t say anything for a long, excruciating moment. “Okay?”

“I…” he tries and instantly fails, ‘cause how the fuck do you just say this to someone? “Okay, so I’m just gonna blurt it all out and then you can ask me whatever afterward, alright?”

“Alright.”

“So, I think I have a stalker? Uh. I mean, I’m pretty sure, actually. ‘Cause a couple of weeks ago in the shower, somebody touched me, when I was y’know, naked and…” He trails off, forces himself to push through the embarrassment. “And then, last week, you remember that present I got? Well, it had a picture of me in the plaza after I left the dorm, when I walked in on you and Meg. And now, today, I’m at Jo’s and she’s made me realize what an idiot I’ve been and that I really should tell you. I’m really sorry, man. I never meant for all of this to happen.”

He’s waiting for Cas to yell at him for putting him in danger, or for him to laugh at Dean for being paranoid. What he’s not ready for is the seriousness in his voice when he says, “You’re with Jo?”

“Err, yeah.”

There’s a deep, dark-scented pause. “I went looking for you after you left. You seemed upset and I was worried.”

Hope flutters in Dean’s chest.

Cas continues, “Was everything you said last night because you were concerned about me? Because if so, there’s no need. I don’t want you to move out.”

Cas is giving him an out. A way to ignore what happened, and the fact that they both know about his pathetic, unrequited crush.

Dean Winchester, _repressor of feelings_ , is more than happy to grab that out with both hands. “Yeah.” He eyes Jo as he says it. She’s watching him with a puzzled expression on her face, absent-mindedly chewing on her fingernail. “That’s why I was upset last night. I’ve just been freaking out, y’know? Sorry for being all weird on you, man.”

“There’s no need to apologize, Dean.” The warmth in Cas’ voice makes Dean feel like maybe, just maybe, things will be okay. “Do you want to meet up somewhere, so we can discuss what to do next? One of my cousins is in law enforcement. I can always call him and find out if there’s anything that can be done.”

Dean already knows that the cops can’t do anything. But the fact that Cas wants to help is already soothing Dean’s frayed nerves.

“Yeah. Yeah, okay, Cas.”

  
  


***

By the time Dean leaves Jo’s room a good half hour later (wearing his one sock and borrowing one of Jo’s, ‘cause her room is apparently the fucking Thunderdome; two socks enter, one sock leaves), Cas is already waiting for him outside. 

Sitting on the bench opposite Jo's building with a couple of coffees and a headful of dark hair that’s sticking up in several directions, eyes bright and impossible, he’s the (wet)dreamy, unreal kind of beautiful that you have to see to believe.

Dean approaches and Cas rises to his feet, a tentative smile on his handsome face, holding out one of the coffees like a peace offering for a war he didn’t even know he was a participant in.

Which ain’t far from the truth.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean says, a lot more casual than he feels.

“Hello, Dean. I got you coffee.” 

Dean takes the cup, his fingers brushing against Cas’. “Thanks, man.”

It’s self-conscious and awkward, like it’s been for the past couple of weeks, but Dean resolves to push through it. Cas is his friend, for fuck’s sake, and he’s obviously concerned about Dean.

He never wanted to make Cas worry about him. But, at the same time? The fact that Cas _is_ worried about him, reassures Dean, has something unraveling in his chest.

_Cas cares._

“Er,” he starts, chewing on his lower lip. “I’m gonna go to the library before class, so we can talk as we walk, but if not, I’ll catch you tonight?”

He’s not avoiding talking about his stalker situation; he’s just not eager to discuss it. As understanding as Cas will probably be, Dean hates the idea of Cas’ eyes taking on that sympathetic sheen, of Cas feeling sorry for him.

“I’ll come with you,” Cas says instantly, no hesitation at all, and he falls into step next to Dean. 

They walk in silence for a couple of minutes whilst Dean tries to remember Cas’ schedule. He doesn’t want Cas missing any classes or whatever for him. 

Cas asks softly, like he’s afraid of spooking Dean, “What was the ‘gift’ you received from the stalker?”

See? This is the kinda crap Dean was talking about. He’s freaked out and a bit scared, sure. But he doesn’t need all this tiptoeing-on-eggshells bullshit. He needs a Jo in Cas form to help him figure out what the fuck to do, and then maybe give him a blowjob afterward. 

“Um,” Dean says, taking a sip of his coffee. It’s perfect, probably from his favorite place across campus that always knows just how he likes it. “It was one of those multi-tool things. You know, the engineer equivalent of a Swiss Army knife.” Dean laughs, but it’s a hollow, bitter sound. “Would’ve been a really cool present if it was from somebody I liked.”

Cas frowns and looks away, eyes downcast. “I’m sorry this is happening to you.” 

Dean starts to reflexively say, “It’s fine,” but it’s obviously not, so he shuts his mouth at the last second. 

They pass by a petite blonde holding out flyers for an a capella group. The girl is far too perky for this time of morning, and the simpering way she smiles at Cas, watches him with bed-lidded eyes, has something dark and ugly coiling in Dean’s stomach.

It’s stupid, but this is _Dean’s_ time. Cas’ attention is all for him, and it’s not fair for random chicks to monopolize it. 

Cas smiles back tightly and politely, but quickly moves on, and Dean inwardly fistpumps.

_Not for you, hussy._

To get to the Moffitt library (the main undergrad one, rather than the Kresge, which is specifically for engineering and the one Dean usually frequents), they have to cross the plaza. It has Dean hesitating, just for a split second.

Of _course_ , Cas notices. 

“We can go another way,” he suggests, no judgment in his tone whatsoever.

Nope. Dean’s not a fucking baby. He’s got this shit.

“Nah.” Dean waves him off, like his heart rate hasn’t already ratcheted up, like his palms aren't already clammy. “It’s cool.”

He concentrates on the library, rather than the prickle under his skin. He watches the students filtering in and out, going about their business like there isn’t a maniac around, sending people gifts and feeling them up in the showers.

As they approach the glass door, Cas moves ahead of him, opens it, and gestures for Dean to go through.

Feeling vaguely like he might be in a period drama (which makes a nice change from a horror flick), Dean murmurs a quiet ‘thanks’ at Cas — rather than curtseying — and enters. 

Inside, after a quick search, they find a couple of quiet study carrels near a window and sit next to each other.

Cas — not having brought his laptop or any of his books with him — goes off in search of a book he’s been meaning to check out, whilst Dean gets down to work.

Or pretends to.

He’s staring at his textbook, the same pages as last night, but they make even less sense now than they did then. He knows what the individual words in the sentences mean, but when put together in that order? Nah. His brain has zero interest in deciphering that shit, far too interested in replaying the way Cas smiled at him when he handed over the coffee. A coffee he undoubtedly went to the other side of campus for, just ‘cause he knows it’s Dean’s favorite.

Or is he reading too much into this?

 _At least you’re reading_ something _._

Next to him, Cas drops back into his seat, a book entitled ‘Pathologies of Rational Choice Theory’ clutched in his hand. 

Deciding that studying is a lost cause, Dean pokes his head around the divider and whispers, “That book as boring as it looks?”

Cas looks up at him sharply. A smile teases at the corner of his mouth. “Worse. Though, to be fair to the authors, at least they write in a way that’s easy to grasp, rather than the standard academic mumbo jumbo.”

“Yeah!” Dean agrees a little too enthusiastically, earning them a couple of glares, but Cas’ smile is all for him, so they can go fuck themselves, frankly. “Like, what’s the point of spending all that time writing a book if only five people can understand it?”

“Most scholarly writing is obtuse, dense, and elitist,” Cas agrees. “Add some inaccessible Latin, and law is even worse, apparently.”

“Something for you to look forward to, then,” Dean teases. 

“Oh, yes. I long for the nights where I get to try and decipher dead languages and pore over needlessly long judicial decisions.”

Caught up in the first proper conversation they’ve had in two weeks, Dean’s brain-to-mouth filter cuts out at just the wrong moment. “Well, what else would you rather be doing?”

Cas’ eyes skate up Dean’s chest to his face, and Dean feels his cheeks growing hot. “I can think of a few things.”

_Goddamn._

  
  


***

  
  


Throughout the day, when Dean leaves a lecture or seminar, Cas is there, waiting for him. Usually with coffee. It’s bittersweet (Cas waiting for him, not the coffee; that’s bitter bitter bitter), because this is what it could be like. But at the same time, it never will be, ‘cause Cas and Meg are fuck buddies and Cas is just being kind because Dean’s gone and got himself a stalker.

It’s something new and scary, being at the center of Cas’ attention, instead of just off to the side. It makes Dean feel safer somehow, like if Cas’ stare sticks, nothing bad can. 

He’s just taking a sip of the coffee Cas handed him after his Metallurgy seminar, the pair of them walking aimlessly across campus, when Cas speaks in a low voice.

“I know you’re at Jo’s on Tuesday evenings these days, but perhaps we should stay together tonight? Just until everything with the stalker is resolved.”

“What?” Dean’s attention snaps to Cas. “I’m not at Jo’s on Tuesdays. What gave you that idea?”

“Oh.” Cas looks faintly embarrassed. “I just assumed. Sorry.”

Like Dean assumed a lot of things about Cas? Or is that just wishful thinking? 

Dean’s pretty sure he’s the king of it at the moment.

“We’re not together,” Dean says, sounding just as stilted as Cas did last night when he made the same declaration. “I’ve never— I mean, I would never. She’s like a sister to me.”

“Oh,” Cas says again. “So, she’s just a friend? I’ve seen you walking around campus together. She brings you coffee.”

_So did you._

The insinuation that he’s anyone’s for a donut and a coffee would be insulting, if it weren’t for the fact that he’s fucked people for less. 

Dean’s beginning to think that they might be a pair of idiots. Failing to communicate, like the oblivious morons in every rom-com ever. 

Of course, he can’t actually say that out loud, because, well, that would be communicating, wouldn’t it? The resulting paradox would have their universe collapsing in on itself.

It’s serious stuff, this stupidity shit.

Plus, _Meg_. Just ‘cause Cas was relieved Dean wasn’t with Jo doesn’t mean that Cas is into Dean — there’s no denying that he was half-naked with her, very clearly into it — so maybe he just doesn’t like Jo?

Again, Dean could ask, but right now, Cas is Schrödinger's crush. If Dean doesn’t look in the box, then there’s still a chance Cas could be interested in him. 

Wishful thinking, but as the song goes, Dean’s gonna pretend his ship ain’t sinking. 

Still. Maybe things aren’t as broken between them as he’d initially feared. At the very least, their friendship is salvageable. Which is more than Dean could’ve hoped for, really.

And friends drag each other to horror aficionados meetings. Plus, Benny did say he should bring Cas along.

“I’ve been going to this horror movie thing on Tuesdays. Do you—” Dean licks his dry lips, tries not to squirm under the fastidious way Cas tracks the movement. “Do you wanna come with me? Everyone’s really good fun, and this week we’re watching a Rob Zombie double feature; House of 1000 Corpses and then The Devil’s Rejects.”

Cas’ smile is beautiful. More beautiful than anyone receiving an invitation to watch people get brutally hacked to pieces should be. “Sounds good.”

  
  


***

  
  


Charlie greets Cas like an old friend, dragging him into a bone-crushing hug. Over his shoulder, she rather unsubtly mouths, “Is this him?” and Dean nods, trying to tell her with his eyes to not embarrass him. Instead of reassuring him, Charlie just smirks that evil smirk, and Dean’s already regretting his decision to bring Cas here.

_Hooo boy, this is gonna be a long night._

“So, introductions?” Dean says, even though it’s just a formality at this point. Charlie releases Cas so he can say hi to Garth. “Guys, this is Cas, my roommate. Cas, this is Charlie, Garth, and I guess Benny’ll be along in a minute?”

“Yeah,” Charlie says, pouring out some whiskey into glasses on the coffee table. “He’s running late ‘cause of some shit with a class he’s TAing for. Something to do with the exams.”

“Cas!” Garth points at Cas, trying to look as intimidating as a guy can when he’s skinny as hell, flopped awkwardly on a couch, and at least moderately tipsy. “In order to become a true horror aficionado, you must answer these questions three. One: What’s the name of the camp in Sleepaway Camp?”

Cas glances at Dean, unsure — not of the answer, just of the drunk weirdo — before he says, “Camp Arawak.”

“Nice!” Garth grins, sloppy and pleased. “Two: What horror movie has the tagline ‘we dare you to say his name three times’?”

“Trick question,” Cas responds smoothly. “It’s actually five times, and the movie is Candyman.” 

Dean has never been more proud of — or attracted to — his roommate. 

Which is really saying something.

“Three,” Garth hiccups. “In Scream, what is rule number one on Randy's list of rules for surviving a horror movie?

Everyone waits with bated breath whilst Cas thinks. “Don’t have sex?”

“You pass!” Charlie grins, handing Cas a tumbler. When she passes one to Dean, she winks. He pulls a ‘play it cool, for fuck’s sake’ face, and she nods like she’s got this shit.

That’s what Dean’s worried about.

“Move over, Garth,” Charlie orders. “Let Dean and Cas sit together on the couch.”

_Real subtle, Charlie._

Dean dutifully sits where he’s shoved once Garth has moved, and he’s pleased to notice that Cas does too; their thighs and arms pressed together on the small couch. Of course, a drunk Garth is on Dean’s other side, which does lessen the romantic vibe somewhat.

Dean fills his mouth with whiskey, keeping quiet whilst Charlie interrogates Cas.

“So, Cas. How come you didn’t bring your girlfriend along?”

Dean chokes on his mouthful of booze, coughing and spluttering into his fist as it tingles and burns down his throat. His eyes water and, if he wasn’t busy dying, he’d be glaring daggers at Charlie. 

“I don’t have a girlfriend,” Cas tells her, ever so slightly puzzled. Most likely as to why on earth she’s asking this, but probably more so as to why Dean would’ve shared any information about his love life with these people.

“Oh, really?” Charlie’s tone slides across registers, and once again, Dean finds himself wishing for powers of telepathy or brain murder.

Cas sips at his whiskey. He side-eyes Dean like he _knows_ , and then, for the dumbasses in the room (aka, Dean) says, “Yes. Meg and I are just friends.”

“Meg?” Charlie clarifies, eyebrows raised. “Meg _Masters_?”

“Yes. Do you know her?”

Charlie pulls a face, glances between Cas and Dean. “Vaguely. Mostly by reputation.”

Cas winces. “Yes, I understand she’s not exactly popular amongst our peers, but she’s been a good friend to me.”

 _Yeah. A_ **_very_ **_good friend._

Dean’ll have to ask about her rep later, when Cas is in the bathroom or something.

Benny performs his usual knock and enters without waiting, pizza in hand. “Fellow horror aficionados!”

“Benny!” Charlie grins from the beanbag. “I’d get up, but I don’t wanna make a fool of myself in front of our new member.” She gestures grandly at Cas, who briefly looks like a startled cat, before his expression smooths out.

Benny’s eyes flit over him, assessing. 

“This is Cas,” Charlie says, and the ‘nudge-nudge’ in her voice is painfully obvious when she emphasizes, “Dean’s _roommate_.”

“Oh,” Benny says, eyes bouncing from Dean to Cas and back again. He seems to mentally shake himself before stepping past Charlie and leaning across the coffee table to offer Cas his hand. “Nice to meet ya, Cas.”

It’s stiff and formal in a way that his casual greeting of Dean wasn’t. 

Cas and Benny shake hands, and then Benny pulls back, looks at Garth. “He drunk already?”

“Yep!” Charlie smirks. “We had the whiskey left from last week and he got into it early today.”

Benny huffs a laugh, lifts the pizza. “If I’da known we’d have an extra and a drunkard in need of sobering up, I’da got another one.”

“It’s cool,” Charlie says. “We can always raid his Cheeto stash.”

  
  


***

  
  


Their visit to the Firefly family over with, Charlie hugs them both goodbye. She whispers something to Cas that Dean doesn’t hear, and when she hugs Dean, she whispers to him, “He’s so in love with you. Stop being an idiot.”

On their way home through the plaza, this time less freaked out, ‘cause he’s full of alcohol and pizza, Dean tells Cas, “I was sitting right over there when the weirdo took my picture.”

Cas follows Dean’s line of sight. “On the bench? Were you alone? With someone?”

“Alone,” Dean says. “Feeling kinda crappy.”

“Why?” Cas asks softly, and it’s that tentative question — along with Charlie’s heartfelt words of advice — that has a crack forming in Dean’s ‘never tell Cas how you feel’ plan.

“I guess I was just a little bummed about you and Meg.”

“Oh.”

They walk the rest of the way in a thorny silence, Dean silently berating himself for the lovesick slip.

_Stupid alcohol. And feelings._

Not a good mix.

They’re back inside their building, on their floor, when Cas speaks again. “I hope you know that you can talk to me about anything, Dean.”

Dean drops his gaze away, terrified of spilling the contents of his heart.

_That’s not what Cas means, dumbass._

They stop outside their room door. Thankfully, the creeper across the hall is absent, though he’s probably got some way of keeping tabs on Dean that he doesn’t really want to think about.

“Yeah, ‘course, Cas.” He forces himself to look up and smile, hoping it doesn’t look as fake as it feels. “Thanks, man. I really appreciate you looking out for me.”

There’s a split second, a crackle of _something_ where it looks like Cas is swaying towards Dean, like he can’t help himself. But then the moment is gone again, skittering away out of Dean’s reach.

“Err,” Dean clears his throat, awkward and on edge. “Should we go in?”

They’ve been standing out in the hallway like a couple coming back from their first date, all jittery and expectant.

“Of course.” Cas smiles and goes for his key. He jiggles it in the lock for a second, then frowns. “Oh. Shit. I must’ve left it unlocked when I rushed out this morning.”

It’s kinda sweet Cas was so worried that he ran straight out after their phone call, but if any of Dean’s stuff is missing or their RA gives them crap over it, then Cas will owe him _a lot_ more coffee. 

Dean enters the room first, flicks the lights on. 

_Oh, fuck._

On the upside, nothing appears to be missing. On the downside, Dean’s bed is a mess. Not just a typical-college-student-who-doesn’t-give-a-rat’s-ass-about-making-his-bed mess. Oh, no. 

There’s another ‘present’ on his bed. A bouquet of blood-red roses, which has been tossed to the foot of his bed, obviously an afterthought to the destruction of his pillows, polyester stuffing ripped out and discarded on the bedcovers and the floor. Some of the roses are missing their heads, the petals torn to pieces and scattered all over the bed like a twisted version of the “bed of roses” cliché. 

It’s as if someone’s thrown an adolescent temper tantrum because they didn’t get their way. 

There’s a note placed neatly and deliberately atop the mess, and Dean gingerly approaches to see it.

In a nondescript font, the note reads: **_‘I’ll never let you go.’_**

Dean’s panic spikes, his heart hammering against the cage of his ribs, mouth dry, body in a cold sweat. He forces himself to focus on breathing, in and out, in and out, in and —

What the actual fuck? Why is this happening? What has he done to deserve this? Why is this maniac fixating on him? He must’ve done _something_ , right?

“Fucking hell,” he says in a breathless croak. He goes to turn to Cas, but he’s already right there at Dean’s side, surveying the damage with wide eyes. 

“We should call the police,” Cas says, uncomplicated and pragmatic. “This is serious.”

“They won’t be able to do anything. He’s not made any threats. They’ll just make me keep a diary or some shit.”

Cas makes a displeased sound. “What do you suggest we do, then?”

“Move to Timbuktu?” Dean jokes, to cover his unease. Upon seeing Cas’ grave expression, though, he schools his features.

“This isn’t funny, Dean.”

“It is a _little_ funny,” Dean says, feeling kinda hysterical and definitely crazy. “I mean, who the fuck would wanna stalk _me_?”

Cas squints at him. “How drunk are you?”

“Not drunk enough to be dealing with _this_ shit.”

“I suspect that no amount of alcohol would make this bearable.”

“Oh, I dunno,” Dean quips. “I’m happy to give it a shot.” He pauses, grins at his own pun, then looks at Cas, who’s deconstructing him with his stare. 

A new, warm feeling unfurls in Dean’s stomach.

“Um,” Dean says, taking advantage of both his semi-drunken state and Cas’ belief in it. “I don’t really wanna sleep there tonight.”

“Oh.” A flicker of disappointment flits across Cas’ expression before he locks it down. “Of course not.” He looks like he’s trying to think of a solution and coming up blank. “Is there— would you like me to escort you somewhere?”

Jo’s out on Tuesdays. Dean could probably go to Charlie and Garth’s, crash on their couch, but he’s feeling a little insane, a little fucking reckless, a little let’s-throw-caution-to-the-wind tonight.

“Or, I could sleep in your bed?” he rushes out, and then realizes what an epic fucking mistake it is, so he tries to backtrack a little. “I mean, fully clothed, obviously. I just— It—”

The shy smile that slowly spreads across Cas’ face is like the sun coming out, and it takes Dean’s breath away. The purity of it. “Of course, Dean. I’m sure we could make ourselves fit.”

Neither of them go to the bathrooms before bed. Dean might be a little drunk, but he’s in no way drunk enough to face _that_ particular nightmare.

They shuffle around one another, getting changed into loose clothing; sweat pants and shirts. 

Cas climbs into bed first, his back to the wall. Then, he lifts up the covers invitingly, like he’s done in so many of Dean’s fantasies, where Dean ends up fucking his fist and coming to the fevered blue of Cas’ eyes.

It’s both awkward and a relief that it’s now a reality, even if the circumstances aren’t quite the same as in his _very_ vivid imagination. 

Dean slides into the bed, under the covers, Cas’ chest molded to his back. There’s no space between them, nowhere for either of them to go. 

Cas’ sheets smell like him, earthy and masculine, and Dean buries his face in his half of the pillow. Behind him, Cas is completely still, barely breathing. Dean can feel him against all the places they touch and it feels like _home_. 

With the scent of Cas curled protectively around him, it doesn’t take Dean a long time to start to feel sleep creeping in around the edges of his consciousness.

He’s just in that blissful place between sleep and wakefulness, when Cas murmurs, “I won’t let anything happen to you, Dean. I promise.”

And Dean believes him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've said this to a few of you who I've had messages from and also those of you who I've seen (👀😂) discussing this on the discord server, but I LOVE hearing/reading about your theories. I promise you that if anyone guesses the ending, I won't change it. So feel free to theorise and stuff. It makes me so unbelievably happy to know that you're as into this fic as I am. ❤️

** Present Day, the Overlook Hotel, just without the elevators of blood and creepy kids (hopefully) **

  
  


Flashlights in hand, the five of them begin their quest to find the source of the noise. 

More sensible people would probably run for the hills (or, in their case, the flats), but they _are_ the bunch of idiots who thought that camping out in an abandoned hotel would be a good idea, so sensible doesn’t really come into it. 

Though, just to buck that trend, Dean grabs the poker from the lobby fireplace on their way past. 

It might not do a lot to a ghost or someone with a gun or whatever, but like fuck Dean isn’t gonna go down fighting.

Staring up into the gloom, he hesitates at the bottom of the ground floor stairs for just a second, wondering if maybe they should do that tactical retreat thing. But then Cas is at his side, and together, they start climbing. 

At the top of the stairs, they turn right, Dean and Cas in the lead, Charlie right behind, and Garth and Benny bringing up the rear.

Dean doesn’t _think_ they went this way before, but this place is so big that he’s having trouble finding his bearings. Especially with the added difficulty of darkness. 

They follow the hallway until they reach rooms, the beams from their flashlights sliding along the floor, the walls. 

Dean thought it had gotten hotter in the foyer, but up here it’s scorching. The trapped, stuffy air feels as though its hemming Dean in, confining him. Sweat beads on his skin, trickling down his face and neck, sliding down his back. It makes his shirt cling. 

The scent of decaying wood and rotting upholstery is stronger here too; it feels like Dean’s breathing in mummy dust.

Cas — a half-step ahead of Dean — stops at the intersection of corridors. “Which way?” 

“I hate to be the one to suggest this,” Charlie says from behind them, “But I think we should split up. We’ll be searching all night otherwise.”

“Are you insane?” Dean asks, but it’s not really a question, ‘cause she must be. He rounds on her, trying to appear sympathetic to her mental breakdown, but he can’t keep the ‘holyfuckingshit, you crazy broad’ out of his voice. “We won’t _have_ an all night, if we split up. We’ll be picked off one-by-one like in every horror movie ever.”

“Actually,” Cas says quietly, but steadily, “In slasher movies, more often than not, a group staying together provides a false sense of security, one that usually turns out to be futile.” 

Dean swings his attention to Cas, communicating only through the intensity of his _‘what the fuck, man?’_ glare. 

“That right, Garth?” Benny asks. 

“Unfortunately, yes. Unless we’re in The Thing.”

If it turns out that there’s an alien roaming these hallways, trying to assimilate them all, then they’ve got bigger problems.

“Which means splitting up is not the worst idea,” Cas concludes, apparently convinced, and Dean’s seriously reconsidering his plan to ride Cas’ dick before the end of the night.

“No,” Dean agrees. “The worst idea would be literally walking up to the murdering psychopath and insulting their mom, but this is definitely at that end of the scale.”

“Vote?” Charlie says. 

“For fuck’s sake,” Dean mutters. “Fine. But just so you know, democracy is deeply flawed, and dictatorship is the way to go.”

“As long as you’re the dictator,” Cas says wryly.

“Well, yeah. Otherwise, it’s no fun.” Dean sighs. “All those in favor of splitting up and getting our brains bashed in by some creeper, say yay. Those against, nay. Nay.”

“Yay,” Charlie and Cas both say.

“Nay,” Benny — reliable, _sensible_ Benny — says.

“Garth?” Dean says, “Dude, you’ve got the tiebreaker.” 

Garth looks panic-stricken, like he’s a politician who’s just been asked about rent boys and a suspect trip to the Hamptons. “Uh, yay?”

Dean has never been so disappointed in his friend. Not even that time when he informed Dean with a completely straight face that Intruder was his favorite slasher movie (‘It’s got the Raimi brothers _and_ Bruce Campbell, what’s not to like?!’)

_Fucking plenty._

Even though Dean’s super mad at her and hopes she gets slobbered on by a ghost, he hands over the poker to Charlie with a disgruntled, “Here. At least if you run into something, you might have a fighting chance.”

The implication being that the rest of them won’t.

“I’ll head back the way we came,” Benny tells them all, as visibly displeased as Dean about this turn of events. “That way, we’re not all goin’ over the same ground. Negates the point of splittin’ up otherwise.”

“Hold up,” Dean says, scowling at Cas, the fucking traitor. “I’ll come with you. They all want to go it alone, that’s _their_ funeral.” He shoulders past Cas and Charlie to get to Benny. 

Leaving the three death-wish musketeers behind, Dean stomps alongside Benny until they come to another intersection at the very far end of the hallway. They turn left into another tunnel of darkness, flashlights bouncing off the walls.

Dean’s sticky as hell, clothes glued to his skin, and one shadowed glance at Benny shows that he’s in pretty much the same state.

Dean lifts the front of his shirt to mop at his face.

“You okay?” Benny asks in a low voice.

“Yeah. Just freaked out and pissed off.”

Benny sweeps the beam of his flashlight into the rooms on the right; Dean focuses on the ones on the left. 

As they reach the end of the corridor, they hear a scratchy, scurrying sound coming from one of the rooms. It sends a cold prickle up Dean’s spine. Could be anything: a rat, a possum, all the way up to a wolf or grizzly. Though, how many grizzlies want a stained, cockroach-ridden mattress to sleep on, Dean doesn’t know. 

He and Benny exchange worried glances as they draw closer to the room where the noise is coming from. 

It certainly _sounds_ bigger than a rat. 

Dean counts to three before he swings his flashlight around the doorframe. 

The beam catches on something with tiny, sharp fangs and glowing green eyes.

“Jesus,” Benny mutters as the thing hisses and screeches to warn them away. His palm comes down heavy on Dean’s shoulder. “Just a fuckin’ possum.”

“ _Just_ a possum?” Dean says, incredulous. “Those little maniacs have opposable thumbs on their back feet! And, I always thought that they play dead when they’re threatened. Y’know, _playing possum_?”

“Must not see us as much of a threat,” Benny says, the two of them watching from the doorway, as the critter resumes digging through some of the trash in the room.

Well, that’s just insulting.

  
  


***

No other sounds come during their search. No screaming, pipe-banging, or possum-shuffling. Dean and Benny explore the other floors, half-expecting to find the mangled remains of the other three in each room they enter, but there’s nothing.

“Fuckin’ weird,” Benny mutters as he opens a door to reveal a rear staircase, one they didn’t find on their first search through the maze of this place. Dean suspects it used to be a staff entrance, which is confirmed, when, at the bottom of the stairs, they find a narrow corridor leading to a tiny break room and the main kitchen. There’s a third door halfway between the stairs and the kitchen, which most likely leads outside; by far the most appealing option. Dean reaches up to snap back the bolt. He twists the knob and jerks the door. It stays put. Bracing his feet, and crouching slightly, Dean shoves at it with his shoulder. It creaks, crackles, and pops open with a squeal, fanning fresh air into the corridor. 

“Holy shit,” he murmurs as the door swings wide. 

He’s been breathing in dead wood and decay for so long now, he’d actually forgotten what the mountain air smells like. It’s gorgeous and fragrant, and Benny crowds up against his back to pull in lungfuls too.

Benny standing so close reminds Dean of the gross, sticky layer of sweat that’s plastering his clothes to his skin. 

_Ugh._

“It’s at times like this,” Dean says, plucking his shirt away from his chest, fanning at himself with it, “I wish I was a chick, so I could do that trick. Y’know, the one where they tie their shirt tails in a half knot underneath their boobs.”

Benny’s grin is mischievous. “You know I won’t stop you.”

“You first,” Dean retorts flippantly as he steps out onto the wooden porch. Its wobbly boards extend all the way along the rear of the inn. At both ends, stairways descend from the porch down to the ground. The whole thing is walled in by dense forest.

Benny appears in front of him, the hem of his t-shirt pulled through the neck, exposing his toned stomach. He strikes a pose, and Dean chokes out a laugh. 

“Oh, yeah,” he smirks, stepping closer and pulling the fabric out, so that it serves as a functioning t-shirt again. “Totally not gay at all, dude.”

“Made you smile though,” Benny points out, fond. 

It’s been a while since they’ve had fun together, just the two of them. Dean didn’t realize just how much he misses their goofy, no-strings banter.

“Yeah, and you’re lucky Charlie and her camera weren’t here as well, otherwise you would’ve made the entire internet smile too.”

As they walk along the length of the porch, following it as it curves around the hotel, they find a picnic area with several tables. They’re all weathered like driftwood, littered with leaves, and have weeds climbing the legs. 

Off beyond the porch, and with steps leading down to it, there’s a strip of concrete. Dandelions grow in the web of cracks. There are faint markings all over, though, enough for Dean to be able to see that it used to be a court of some kind. 

“Shuffleboard,” Benny murmurs, staring down at the markings too. 

When he looks up to meet Dean’s questioning gaze, he explains, “My grammaw used to play.”

Dean grins. “Oh, that is _adorable_. I can just imagine little Benny playing with his mee-maw, drinking sweet tea and eating fried catfish.”

“Any other stereotypes you wanna toss in?” Benny asks him, but he’s smiling too.

Dean thinks for a second, “Eh, something about Duck Dynasty and being drunk all the time? There.”

“A mediocre attempt, brother.”

“Yeah, but you _do_ drink a lot and eat fried catfish. You serve it in your fucking restaurant, so way to lean into the cliché, dude.”

Benny concedes the point and they carry on walking.

Beyond the shuffleboard court, there’s some kind of long wood-and-glass structure. It’s way off to the left, far enough from the hotel that it wasn’t visible from the front when they drove up. It’s close to the line of the woods at the northern side of the lawn. Several flagstone paths converge around it. 

A swimming pool?

_Only one way to find out._

Dean starts toward the building, Benny following closely behind. As they get closer, the beams from their flashlights reflect off of the glass windows. 

Dean peers inside, cupping his hands around his eyes. 

Yep, it’s a pool. Well, _ex_ -pool.

They enter through the nearest door, though there seem to be several. Above them is a beautiful, mostly intact skylight. They walk around the edge, checking for murderous pipe-bangers as they go. 

There’s no water left in the pool, and the whole place is hollow and devoid of life; nothing more than rusted metal and broken tiles. Their footsteps echo as they look around, swinging the beams of light across the floor in front of them, up the murky glass windows and across the ceiling. At the far end are two doors with cracked and peeling paint that marks them out as ‘GENTS’ and ‘LADIES’ changing rooms. There are weeds everywhere, pushing through the cracks in the tiles, coming in through the shattered windows, clinging to the wooden pane.

This whole place was very obviously a luxury venue before it was left to fall into ruin. And it really has fallen. Like, head first.

Benny makes Dean jump when he speaks again. “I’m pretty relieved to not find anyone waitin’ to murder us, but that doesn’t explain the noise earlier.”

_Thanks for the reminder, Benny._

“Maybe the possum was practicing his audition for West Side Story?” Dean murmurs flippantly as he crouches down to examine something that glints under his flashlight beam. “Y’know, banging pipes, clicking his creepy opposable thumbs.”

It’s just a sliver of glass.

“Ha ha,” Benny mutters, like Dean’s not the funniest guy he knows. 

Dean pushes to his feet again, brushing his hands off on his jeans. “It could’ve been anything, Benny. But I would’ve thought that someone wanting to murder us all would’ve at least stuck around for the murdering part? Seems like a wasted opportunity.”

“True,” Benny muses. “Though we don’t know how the others are.”

“Thanks for putting _that_ into my head, dude.”

“Either way, I still think we oughta leave.”

Dean’s knee-jerk reaction is to say no. There’s nobody here, and he and Cas haven’t really had time to… uh, _reconnect_. But there won’t be any further opportunities for _anything_ if they end up getting killed by a maniac wearing the face of his last victim.

They haven’t found a plausible explanation for the banging, and possum aside, Dean’s pretty sure it was a deliberate attempt to freak them out. 

For what reason is the real mystery. It could be pretty benign; could be some local kid who saw the car out front and decided to sneak in somehow and scare the tourists, or it really could be someone with bad intentions.

Either way, he’s not sure he wants to stick around and find out.

“Yeah,” Dean says. “Yeah, let’s leave.” 

The relief on Benny’s face is palpable. “Great. Tell you what, I’ll go get the others, you pack up everyone’s stuff into the car, so that we’re ready and can just get outta here.”

Dean’s not eager to be alone, but it probably _is_ the quickest way of leaving this place in their rearview mirror. 

“Sure.”

“You gonna be okay?”

“Yeah.” _No. Maybe._

Benny looks like he wants to say something else, but thinks better of it. Then he’s gone, yanking the main door open and striding back across the shuffleboard court.

For a long moment, Dean just stands there, flashlight held limply in his hand. He’s tempted to get the multi-tool out of his pocket; it’s got a couple of small blades on it. Enough to jam into someone’s femoral artery and do some serious damage, but he decides against it, choosing to keep his right hand free.

Exiting the pool building, Dean can no longer see Benny. 

He glances up at the sky. It’s a clear night, pristine black, with one or two passing puffs of cotton-white clouds. It’s gorgeous; seems a shame to waste it. Maybe they can find somewhere less creepy to camp?

Behind him, one of the doors to the pool bangs shut. 

Dean startles, fear coiling tightly around his spine.

_Holy shitting fuck._

Now, he’s got a decision to make. Does he continue like nothing happened, go back to the hotel, pack up the stuff, and hopefully not get brutally murdered as he’s loading up the car, or does he go back to the pool and hopefully not get brutally murdered as he’s investigating the noise?

Talk about a Cornelian dilemma. 

At face value, the safe option seems obvious: go back to the hotel and don’t investigate like every cliché horror movie character ever. 

But. He won’t be able to get it out of his head if he doesn’t investigate. He’ll spend the rest of their (hopefully) short time here freaking the fuck out, waiting for whatever just slammed that door to come out of the shadows and throttle him with razor wire.

_Or throttle one of the others._

Decision made, Dean turns back, half-expecting there to be a creeper jumpscare right in front of him, the kind that comes right after the tight close-up in a horror movie, but there’s nothing. 

Fine tremors run through Dean’s hand as he pushes the door wide. He kicks a fragment of tile in front of it, and wedges it open. Ready to make a quick escape. 

The place looks exactly the same as it did ninety seconds ago. Nothing has been visibly disturbed, and there’s no sign of any of the doors having been opened or closed. 

Very slowly, he begins the walk around the perimeter of the pool. 

Aside from the rush of blood in his own ears, Dean can hear nothing. The quiet that felt comforting a few moments ago, when Benny was here, is now oppressive and suffocating. 

A sudden scraping noise makes Dean flinch. Filled with dread, he turns. The door has started to close, sending the tile Dean wedged under it rattling across the floor.

It slams shut. 

Silence again.

_Okay. Not creepy at all._

Still, he’s determined to make sure that there are no murderers a-lurkin’, so he continues his search, trying to ignore the unease sitting heavy in his gut.

He’s just walked past the changing room door, the one marked GENTS, when he hears a door getting shoved open, gritty and loud, and he has a split second to wonder if it’s Benny at the front again, before there’s a strong hand on his shoulder, forcefully dragging him backward. 

Dean yells. A garbled mix of surprise and profanity, as he flails blindly, instincts kicking in half a heartbeat too late to be effective, and he’s pulled inside the changing room.

In the windmill of limbs, Dean drops his flashlight, sending the beam darting across the ceiling, before it settles uselessly in a corner of the room, studiously focused on a small pile of rubble.

_Oh, fuck. This is it._

The door slams shut behind Dean and his attacker, sealing them in, and the darkness and damp smell are stifling in the small changing room. Dean gets bodily shoved against the nearest tiled wall, his back coming into contact hard enough to wind him. In the shadowed gloom, Dean blinks hard to force his eyes to cooperate.

He’s just about to bring his fist into contact with the guy’s neck when his face looms into view, all angles and hollows and shadows, cheekbones sharp as knives.

It’s Cas. 

Dean’s heart rate doesn’t slow. If anything, it picks up speed.

“Cas, what the—”

But Cas isn’t in the mood for talking; instead, he grabs a handful of Dean's hair and yanks him down into a searing, punishing kiss that's familiar and new all at once. Dean moans, getting a fist in Cas’ shirt, dragging him in closer, adrenaline and fear cranking up the heat, bodies molding together, filling every space between them until there’s nothing left but thin cloth and warm skin. 

The kiss is hurried and desperate, years of pent-up aggression and lust poured into the way their mouths move and the insistent way Cas shoves a thick thigh between Dean’s, making Dean break the kiss on a needy pant. “Cas, fuck.”

Cas attempts to soothe away the decade-and-a-half of hurt between them with his lips and tongue, kissing more deeply and pressing closer to Dean, _into_ Dean, the pair of them hopeless for each other like always. The kisses get hungrier, heavier, and more demanding until Cas manages to gasp out a broken, “Dean,” between one kiss and the next, not wanting — or able — to stop for anything.

Cas slips his unoccupied hand between the tight crush of their bodies, fumbling with the button of Dean’s pants, desire making his fingers clumsy. Dean _whines_ in the back of his throat when Cas finally yanks the fly open and gets a hand on Dean’s hard dick through the cotton of his boxers.

_Holy fuck._

“Cas, Cas what the fuck are we doing? Are you sure? We shouldn’t— It’s not—”

Cas hushes him by slapping a broad palm across Dean’s mouth, whilst his other hand works on dragging Dean’s dick free. 

As soon as Cas gets a bare hand around him, skin on skin, Dean thrashes like a wild thing, hips bucking, shoulder blades pressed against the grimy tiles. His moans are muffled behind the barrier of Cas’ hand, but anyone walking past the room would know exactly what is going on in here.

Cas’ eyes are pitch black and dangerous in the low light and he leans in close, watching Dean’s face for every single micro-expression. It’s hot as hell, and Dean’s dick blurts out another drop of precome, which Cas thumbs through, smearing it down the length and back up again, the sure, firm strokes of his hand bringing Dean dangerously close to the brink already, making him frantic and needy in the way only Cas can.

Maybe he should worry about how easily he submits to this; to Cas. But all cohesive thought has long since departed, and all he can do is stand there, trapped between the tiles and Cas’ body, and take it. 

Cas senses his surrender and growls, “That’s it. So good for me, Dean.”

His hand on Dean’s dick feels like heaven and hell all at once, perfection and damnation, ‘cause he was an idiot if he ever thought that, after everything, he and Cas wouldn’t end up back here. 

The two of them lost for each other in the darkness.

Dean’s fist is still tight in Cas’ shirt, the one Dean gave him, the one he wore here, knowing how it would fuck with Dean’s head, the bastard. And yeah, Dean might know how to piss Cas off, but Cas is the Michelangelo of emotional warfare. 

Hand over Dean's mouth muffling his moans, Cas watches Dean intently, dominant and self-assured. It’s been years, and Dean can only take so much. 

He bucks hard, his own breath hot and humid against his mouth, cloying like the stale, soupy air surrounding them. 

“Let me see you come,” Cas commands, heated, stroking fast and rough, letting Dean fuck into the tight tunnel of his palm, Dean’s cock growing impossibly harder at the instruction and _fuckfuckfuck_.

Whole body going taut, breath caught in his throat, Dean wants to beg and plead, but he can’t breathe, can’t drag the necessary oxygen down into his lungs. His vision is going blurry as his body fights for air, eyes rolling back with the _sofuckinggood_ of it all. 

"Come for me, Dean.”

As always, Dean is helpless to resist, and with a strangled moan, years of need and want pour out of him as he comes, spurting thick wet streaks between them and over Cas’ fist as he presses his thumb under the head of Dean’s dick. 

Dean’s head is throbbing in time with his cock and pulse, and there are spots swimming in his vision as he comes down, panting against the cage of Cas’ fingers, lightheaded with both the lack of air and his orgasm.

Eyes never leaving Dean’s, Cas lifts his hand to his mouth and licks Dean's come from his fingers, sucking his forefinger between his kiss-swollen lips. He removes the hand covering Dean’s mouth.

"Cas," Dean rasps, mouth dry, wide-eyed and turned on. “Jesus.”

Cas hums in response, gaze heated.

Dean wants. Has always wanted. Will always want. 

He drops his attention to the shadow of Cas’ erection pushing at the zipper of his jeans. “Can I…?”

Cas nods, and before his chin has even come back down, Dean’s folding to his knees, rubble and fuck knows what else digging into his skin through his jeans, but he can’t bring himself to care. 

He scrabbles at Cas’ jeans, popping the button, pushing the clothing down around strong thighs. Pressing his forehead to the thick muscle of Cas’ thigh, Dean takes a second to breathe in the familiar, sharp scent of him, and Cas pets his hair, gentle and caring. Which is much too close to feelings and history and other places Dean _cannot_ go, so he curls his fingers in the elastic waistband of Cas’ boxers and tugs them down, cock catching briefly on the fabric before springing free.

Wasting no time — because he doesn’t want them to get caught _literally_ with their pants down — Dean gets a palm around the velvety hardness of Cas’ dick, and leans forward, pushing his tongue into the slit, tasting salt and earthy iron.

Cas hisses, and the hand in Dean’s hair tightens. 

“You sure you want this, Cas?” Dean asks, glancing up through his lashes, and Cas stares down, his blue eyes eating Dean up. 

Dean receives the answer in the form of Cas yanking on Dean’s hair, shoving Dean’s face at his cock.

_Fuck, Cas is so hot like this._

Opening his mouth wide and flattening his tongue against the ridge of Cas’ cock, Dean sucks him down, hot and wet, the blood-rich length of him perfect. Cas tilts his head back on a moan, exposing the long, sweat-shiny line of his throat, eyes closed. 

Cradling Dean’s skull, Cas starts to move his hips in shallow thrusts, fucking into Dean’s mouth incrementally deeper every time, and fuck, Dean wishes they were college-age, ‘cause he’d already be hard as a fucking rock again. As it is, his cock twitches and makes a valiant attempt to stiffen as he takes as much of Cas’ dick as he can without choking. 

Cas’ cock feels huge, the head bumping against the roof of Dean’s mouth, his soft palate, with every thrust. Cas’ thighs tremble slightly, stomach muscles clenched taut, pulled tight against the need to shove himself down Dean’s throat.

And that just won’t do at all.

Dean taps firmly on Cas’ thigh with two fingers, a signal from the old days, and Cas groans out a guttural, “Shit, Dean,” before he forces Dean’s head down further, making him take more. Dean digs his fingernails into the denim over Cas’ ass, swallowing around the head of his cock, throat fluttering. 

“Dean, oh—f—fuck,” Cas grunts, and then he’s reaching down with his free hand, tilting Dean’s gaze to look up at him, blue-ringed black meeting green-ringed black. Tears pricking at the corners of his eyes, brain hazy with lust, Dean swallows again as Cas stares down at him, transfixed, eyes hooded, mouth parted on the brink of a curse. 

The thick, wet, nasty sound of Cas fucking Dean’s face, nudging his dick further and further down Dean’s throat, is obscene in the small room. A mix of precome and spit drools down his chin, and Dean’s back to fighting for breath again, breathing through his nose as he and Cas maintain eye contact. 

A string of curses — ones definitely not befitting a person of the law — come spilling out of Cas’ mouth, a sign that Cas is skirting around the edge of his orgasm, so Dean swallows again, the tight clutch of his throat convulsing, and that’s it, Cas is gone, his cock twitching and flooding Dean’s throat and mouth with the bitter warmth of his come.

Dean swallows it as best he can, but it’s been a while.

Breathing shaky and shallow as he comes down, Cas keeps his hand stroking through Dean’s hair absentmindedly, his harsh pants bouncing off the four walls, loud and obvious. 

Still on his knees, Dean struggles with the zero-to-sixty of it all. He swipes at his mouth and chin with the back of his hand.

That was so fucking stupid. For more reasons than the immediately obvious. Also, now that he thinks about it, he could literally be on his knees in a million dead things. 

_Ugh._

Reality sinks in, harshing the post-orgasm, grim changing-room glow, and Dean pushes to his feet. Cas helps him, gets a hand on his elbow, steadying him. 

“Are you alright, Dean?” 

Cas’ fly is still open, jeans slung low on the sinful jut of his hip bones, dick tucked behind cotton again, and Dean has conflicting feelings about whether he wants to go another round or whether he just wants to get the fuck outta here.

“Yeah,” Dean responds, as he looks at Cas, catches sight of his lashes, pointed with sweat. “You couldn’t have picked somewhere a little more sanitary to jump me?”

Cas’ mouth curls in amusement. “Where would you suggest? The kitchen covered in grime and dust? One of the bedrooms with a poorly rendered phallus and the remnants of a Lovecraftian summoning spell? The dining room where anyone could walk in at any moment?”

_Fair point._

Dean’s not gonna suggest that Cas could always not have jumped him at all, ‘cause they both knew it was coming (heh). And Dean very obviously enjoyed himself. 

“Yeah, okay,” he mutters, waiting for full cerebral function to return. “You’ve got a point. Hey, how’d you find me anyways?”

“I passed Benny outside. He said you were in here. Alone.”

“And you thought it was a prime opportunity to scare the shit out of me.”

Cas’ smile turns razor-sharp as he gently tucks Dean back into his boxers. “It was definitely a prime opportunity for _something_. Scaring you was just a bonus.”

_Fuck._

Theirs has always been a vicious love, the type with teeth and blood. It felt like the be-all and end-all to Dean, the I’d-die-without-you-and-kill-myself-to-be-with-you kind of love. Over the years, he’s convinced himself that it was because Cas was his first love, and you never forget your first.

Your second, third, fourth, sure. But never your first.

It occurs to Dean now that Cas isn’t merely his first love. He’s his _only_. That all-consuming, I-can’t-spend-a-second-of-my-life-away-from-you wasn’t just ‘cause they were young and dumb, but ‘cause that’s who they’ve always been — and always will be — to each other.

It’s a hell of a revelation to have in the disgusting changing room of an abandoned hotel whilst a potential murderer is on the loose, but this situation has thrown him back into that adrenaline-fueled headspace he associates with Cas. Where everything is stripped back to the working parts, nothing more than base intuition and survival instinct. 

Over the years, Dean’s found himself subconsciously judging people who’ve had an easy life, people who’ve never experienced any real adversity. How can you really know who you are until you’ve been stripped bare and had to face the darkest parts of yourself? 

And by the same token, how can someone profess to truly love you unless they’ve seen the very worst of you? That’s what love is, right? Someone seeing every single part of you, and loving the whole, not only being there to pick up the pieces when you shatter, but knowing where each piece fits, how to fill in the fractures with their love to make you greater than the sum of your parts. 

_Jesus H. Christ, it was just an orgasm. Calm down, Aristotle._

The problem (or not) is, now that they’ve opened the proverbial floodgates, nothing will be able to keep them apart. Benny’s disapproving glare notwithstanding. 

Still, soul-deep, profound bond or not, Dean can’t help but tease, "Hey, at least you lasted longer than fifteen seconds this time. Marginally."

With a fond, yet sly smirk, like he knows _exactly_ what Dean’s doing, Cas drags the rough pad of his thumb over Dean's bottom lip, smearing the tacky drop of come there into the swollen flesh. Dean's spent dick twitches. 

"I missed this mouth," Cas muses. "Even the things that come out of it."

Touché.

“Yeah? Missed anything else?”

Cas pretends to consider, and Dean takes the opportunity to lunge forward and seal their mouths together again, letting Cas taste himself on Dean’s tongue. Cas kisses back with the kind of ferocity that reminds Dean of times when their world was narrowed down to each other. Where nothing else mattered but their obsession with each other.

Cas pulls away after a long few moments, catching his breath, and staring Dean down with dark eyes. Their chests rise and fall together, bound by their hearts beating exclusively for one another and their shared trauma. 

“Everything,” he murmurs and Dean shivers at the devastation he sees reflected back at him.

“Jesus, Cas.” He tries to scrape himself back together, scrounge up the wherewithal to get out from underneath the weight of Cas’ declaration. 

Abruptly as it came, the intensity is gone, and Cas is stepping away out of Dean’s space.

Dean is immediately bereft, at sea without Cas to hold him up, and he feels twenty and dumb again, fumbling around in the dark without any clue how he’s supposed to express these feelings. 

So, of course, he deflects. 

“You know that we’re gonna die now, right?” Dean jokes, buttoning and zipping his pants as Cas retrieves the flashlights. “That’s, like, rule number one of every slasher movie. You have sex, you die.”

_Oh, but what a way to go._

Cas’ smile widens, and he’s so disgustingly handsome that it’s like a physical blow (heh). “Don’t worry. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

It’s an obvious mockery of Cas’ promise all those years ago, but he meant it then, and despite everything, Dean suspects he means it now.

“How? You ain’t got a gun this time, bigshot.”

“True,” Cas acknowledges, both his and Dean’s flashlights in hand, “But you are forgetting one very important detail.”

“Yeah? What’s that?”

Cas leans in close, warm breath ghosting over Dean’s mouth. “ _I’m_ the murderer.” 

He slaps a flashlight into Dean’s open palm as he kisses Dean again, perfect and lewd. With a pleased quirk of his lips, he moves away and shoulders the door open. Poking his head out around the doorframe, he looks both ways outside before he steps out, holding the door open for Dean.

A grin spreads across Dean’s face as he follows. “Oh yeah, must’ve slipped my mind, what with all the orgasms and stuff. You’re gonna kill me with a CD, right?”

Cas turns to him as they walk, “If I can find one. Because the owner of this place might have left in a hurry, but I’ve noticed he didn’t leave any entertainment facilities behind.”

They reach the main door of the pool, and Cas hurries ahead to hold it open for him. 

“You’ll have to leave a disparaging Yelp review,” Dean tells him once they’re back outside and in the fresh air. “And anyway, I’m sure there’s a copy of Michael Jackson’s Thriller kicking around. It’s, like, the law or something.”

“Death by Vincent Price voiceover,” Cas deadpans, and Dean laughs. 

Between the moon and Cas, lunacy is setting in, and Dean finds himself leaning back into this like their years apart never existed. 

Cas leads them back up onto the porch. They find the door that Dean and Benny busted out of earlier. The downstairs corridor is narrow and dingy. The cramped staircase upwards is extremely uninviting.

“Which way now?” Dean asks.

“Well, what’s the plan? Benny said something about us all leaving?”

“Yeah. He still thinks it’s a good idea to get the hell outta dodge, and I gotta say, I’m kinda with him here.”

Cas turns to him. Studies him with that stupid, adorable head tilt. “Are you sure?”

Dean nods. “Yeah. I mean, we can always get a hotel, right? Actually fuck in a bed.”

“I was with you until the bed part. Are you telling me that you _don’t_ enjoy kneeling in god knows what on a disgusting changing room floor? You actually want to be comfortable? I don’t remember you being this high maintenance.”

Dean grins, but it’s a little weak, “Pretty sure there’s a lot you don’t remember about me, Cas.” 

The intensity is back again, and Dean has to look away. Can’t cope with the way Cas is looking _into_ him, or Cas telling him all the shit he _does_ remember. 

That won’t lead them anywhere good, and Dean’s beyond relieved when Cas’ stare finally leaves the side of his face. 

In silence, they start the trek back up the stairs, coming out on the second floor. They both pause, listening for any signs of life.

Nothing.

Dean shrugs and (hopefully) leads them back the way he and Benny came. It’s not long before they find the possum room, though one quick glance inside yields no pissy marsupial. 

“Huh,” Dean mutters, “Must’ve got the call.”

Cas frowns, “What?”

Just as Dean’s about to explain his West Side Possum audition joke, there’s a noise at the end of the corridor. They both freeze.

A split second later, it comes again. 

It’s the sound of a female voice, shouting.

Dean's heart kicks into his throat. 

_Charlie._


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone interested, this is the cover version of Wild Horses mentioned part way through the fic. It's also from the Wahlberg film Dean mentions a couple of times:
> 
> [(Not entirely SFW)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q8fMs5EcTjg)

**Fourteen years ago. The morning after the night before, UC Berkeley**

Dean snorts awake with his face pushed into the curve of Cas’ collarbone, nose smushed and drool everywhere. It’s about as dignified as Dean can expect with the run of luck he’s having. Cas’ body is half-trapped beneath him, all soft, sleep-warm skin, and judging by the even rise and fall of his chest, he’s still asleep.

_So there is a god._

Their legs are tangled together in the sheets, and Dean attempts to extricate himself as gently as he can, but Cas’ arms are like steel bands around his waist, and the flare of desire he experiences when Cas moves in his sleep, brushing his morning wood against Dean’s hip, has him biting back a moan.

_It would be so easy._

But no. 

“Cas,” he whispers, trying to angle his face so that he doesn’t murder Cas with his morning breath. “I need to go to the bathroom.”

For more reasons than just a piss, and if Cas shifts just a little more to the left, he’ll find that out firsthand. 

_Oh, God. Don’t think about Cas’ hands._

Yeah, ‘cause his face is a much safer bet.

Fuck. _Fuck._

_Just don’t think. Or look. At all._

Failing miserably — which is practically a Dean Winchester trademark at this point — Dean takes advantage of his roommate’s unconscious state and stares unabashedly at him. Cas is alarmingly attractive at the best of times, but right now, all rumpled from sleep, his dark eyelashes fluttering against the sweep of his cheekbones, clavicles highlighted by the thin stream of weak light coming through the bedroom window, his breathing deep and relaxed, he’s unrelenting in his beauty.

Dean’s lost. Just like the stalker thing, there’s no handbook on this, no foolproof way not to lose your friend-slash-roommate by telling him that you love him when he most likely doesn’t reciprocate your feelings. 

Dean sighs and rests his forehead against Cas’ collarbone, breathing in the scent of his skin. 

_Fuck. Why isn’t shit ever simple?_

  
  


***

Cas wakes up a half-hour later. Dean totally doesn’t spend the entire thirty-two minutes and seventeen seconds memorizing the topography of his muscles, staring at the broad taper of his shoulders, wishing he had the guts to make a move, ‘cause that would just be sad, right?

_Ha._

After a tricky disentanglement, and an exchange of almost painfully polite morning greetings — made all the more bizarre by the fact that Dean now intimately knows the size and shape of Cas’ dick — Dean hurriedly yanks yesterday’s jeans on, finds a t-shirt that doesn’t smell completely repulsive, and slips out the door to meet Jo for their morning lecture.

He leaves Cas in their room with his nose in a book. Things are awkward now for a slightly different reason, and Dean’s just _done_ with it all. 

When he returns later that night, Cas isn’t around, but Dean has fresh, full pillows and there’s not a rose petal in sight. 

His roommate has cleaned up the stalker’s mess, and Dean’s stupid, traitorous heart clenches. 

Cas is acting like he cares, and Dean’s not entirely sure what to do with it, being as he can’t stick his dick in it to show affection. 

As usual, Jo’s no help at all — _“I still think you should try the shirtless-bend-over combo. Oh, he’s hoping to go on to law school after this, right? Well, if Legally Blonde taught me anything, it’s the ole bend and snap.”_

Dean feels like he’s got one foot in a second-rate teen comedy and the other in a lame-ass horror movie. 

Which is about as fun as it sounds. 

  
  


***

Days seep into one another, blurring and bleeding together, just a mess of studying, pining, and nervous anxiety.

The creeper from across the hall continues to watch Dean with the same intensity. Sometimes he’s there, casually slouched against the door jamb, sometimes he’s not, but he never says a word to Dean, and Dean has yet to dredge up the courage to tell him to eat shit and die. 

On the days he’s there, Dean waits to shower until Cas can go with him. Cas is his quiet but stern guardian, keeping close watch for any errant hands or anyone who looks at Dean the wrong way. 

Dean’s more in love than ever. And it’s super un-fucking-fortunate, because Cas being _right there_ , like _all the time_ , but just out of reach, is driving Dean to distraction. 

The situation is not helped by the fact that someone accompanies him wherever he goes these days — not just to the showers, but also to class, to the library, and to horror aficionados meetings. He even has company at bedtime (not even in the fun way, ‘cause the stalker has put the kibosh on his slutty ways, [and Cas sadly hasn’t offered to share again, but whenever Dean’s ready to turn the lights out, Cas is right-fucking-there, across the room, with that sexually frustrating face and _everything_ of his]). It’s most certainly not accidental, and Dean would admire Cas and his friends for their sneaky organizational skills if the babysitting wasn’t wearing thin pretty fucking quickly. 

Which brings Dean neatly to something else that has not only worn thin, but torn the whole metaphor entirely, and it’s that Cas has taken to leaving his shirt off overnight now. Which is two things: firstly, mighty inconvenient, ‘cause Dean has literally no time alone to masturbate. Secondly (and unfortunately for Dean’s hanging-by-a-gossamer-string sanity), totally un-fucking-necessary, ‘cause it’s barely 65 out and so it makes no sense in the world for Cas to be existing with his shirt off.

The weather may not be hot, but the same cannot be said for Cas, ‘cause _holy shit_. 

They’ve seen each other in various states of undress before, of course they have. A quick sneak peek here, a quick I-forgot-my-clean-shirt-when-I-went-for-a-shower there. 

But this is a long, deliberate look; legitimate temptation, especially now that Dean knows how all of _that_ feels pressed up against all of _him_. 

_Goddammit, Cas._

Dean would think it was calculated if not for the fact that Cas ain’t like that. 

Unfortunately, it doesn’t help his… uh… _situation_ , which is confused about the sudden abandonment. And not shy about showing it. He’s been popping more inappropriate boners than a teenager in a whorehouse, and it’s just adding to the whole ‘not fun-ness’ of this whole crappy experience. 

Tonight, it’s been hell on earth, and Dean wonders if Cas has had time between coordinating Dean’s babysitting (‘cause yeah, Dean _knows_ it’s him) to take advice from Jo, ‘cause the way he’s shirtless and bending over right now is giving Dean serious bend-and-snap vibes.

And whaddya know? It’s pretty fucking effective. 

_Fuck._

Dean lies there in his own bed, studiously staring at the ceiling, totally not sneaking glances as Cas gets ready for bed. Willing his semi away isn’t working, and neither is thinking about gross stuff like that time his brother puked up his stomach’s contents after not chickening out of Dean’s dumbass ‘bet-you-can’t-drink-that-soda-with-cigarette-butts-in’ dare when he was thirteen and Dean was seventeen.

Ugh. That was some serious Exorcist shit. 

Finally, _fucking finally_ , Cas gets into his bed. Dean takes the opportunity to steal one final look at his ass before it disappears for the next seven hours, and as usual, it doesn’t disappoint. 

Dean’s not quite sure how Cas lucked out this damn well on the genetics front — a deal with the devil maybe — but he’s certainly not complaining. 

Well. He is, but only ‘cause he can’t touch.

Both of them in their respective beds, Cas switches off the lamp on his nightstand, plunging the room into darkness. 

Dean lies there, breath held in his lungs. He’s on edge for so many reasons right now and it’s exhausting, but on top of everything, he’s been struggling to sleep. 

‘Cause if this experience has taught him anything, it’s that things can always (and _will_ always) get worse. 

The night he spent in Cas’ bed is the best night’s sleep he’s gotten, even before the stress of exams and a fucking stalker got added to his already dire-in-love-with-my-roommate situation. But he’s too chicken to ask if he can climb in with Cas again, ‘cause what if Cas says no?

He’s tempted to make up some shit about his stalker, just to have an excuse to ask. He’s already halfway through a pretty vivid story involving another photo turning up on his desk or something, when Cas speaks.

“Dean?” 

Dean clears his throat, “Yeah?”

There’s a short pause. Then, “Are you alright?”

Dean considers the question. The silence drags on for a while before he manages an unsatisfying answer. “I don’t know.”

Cas doesn’t say anything for so long that Dean thinks he’s fallen asleep. He gets startled by the low rumble of Cas’ voice when he finally speaks. “Do you want to come over here?”

_Yes._

Dean lies there, mouth shut. He’s dirty and needy, desperate for Cas to reciprocate his feelings.

“Dean,” Cas says in a gravel-rough voice. “Come here.”

Apparently, this is Cas making at least one thing simple. 

So Dean does as he’s told and climbs into bed with his roommate. Both of them are only in their boxer-briefs this time, and where there was cloth before, this time there’s just miles of overheated, sticky skin. Dean imagines that if they lie like this long enough, it’ll hurt to pull apart. 

_And there’s another metaphor. Or is that an analogy?_

They’re pressed so close that Dean can feel the draw of breath into Cas’ lungs, can feel Cas’ heartbeat against his own, picking up speed.

He shifts behind Dean, and then a second later, his arm drapes across Dean’s stomach. “Sorry,” he murmurs, practically breathing into Dean’s ear and making him shiver. “Just getting comfortable.” His fingertips brush over Dean’s abdomen, making the muscles flutter, and his stomach swoop.

Dean feels swindled somehow. Hoodwinked. Like he's missing something here. 

_Maybe Cas_ is _like that. Calculating._

The little shit. 

‘Cause comfortable is one thing Dean’s not. If anything, he’s pretty un-fucking-comfortable right now. His dick, which had been beginning to get the ‘go the fuck away’ message before Cas invited him over here is back on the ‘sexytimes, yes?’ train. 

The only thing that doesn’t have him leaping out of Cas’ arms and bed is the fact that he can feel the prod of Cas’ hard-on, digging into the small of his back. 

It has Dean’s heart beating arrhythmically, has him wondering if this is Cas making a move or whether he’s just reacting to having someone to curl up against. Or maybe it was there before Dean even got in? Totally unrelated.

“I can hear you thinking,” Cas murmurs, lips ghosting over Dean’s shoulder blade. “Go to sleep.”

Well, that rules out one option at least. 

Just, why does it always have to be the one Dean wants to take? 

  
  
  


***

  
  


The fact that Dean's life has become the embodiment of Rockwell's 'Somebody's Watching Me' means that anxious studying has given way to just plain old anxiety. He’s suspicious of anyone who walks too close, anyone who smiles at him, wondering if they’re gonna suddenly reveal themselves to be Dean’s very own David McCall.

(Though, Mark Wahlberg was fucking hot in that movie). 

And whilst it never hurts to have an open mind, Dean’s pretty sure — 99.9% — it’s the creeper across the hall.

Dude’s not exactly _subtle_.

Why can’t he be normal about his crush or whatever? And yeah, sure, Dean’s hardly the expert on how to deal with feelings and shit, but there’s gotta be a better way than stalking someone, right? It’s not like Dean’s unapproachable or whatever, so why the fuck can’t the dude just speak to him? 

‘Cause the whole creepy-staring-whilst-staying-silent thing is probably worse than if he launched into a villain monologue about how he wants to keep Dean in his sex dungeon.

Or something. 

Whatever he actually wants to do with Dean, 'cause that's the insane part. Who writes "I'll never let you go" except hair metal bands and psychopaths with bad intentions? What is this guy hoping to get out of it? 

For Dean, it’s paralyzing not being able to do anything about it all. He’s got no proof, and no way of protecting himself. Beyond Cas, that is. 

And fuck, what a protector Cas has turned out to be. 

Dean hadn’t planned on letting Cas know about the dude across the hall just yet, but someone — _Charlie_ — spilled the beans about Dean’s theory, so now Cas makes it a point to stare the guy down whenever he’s outside of his room. Whether he’s busy watching Dean or just going to get his laundry. 

Cas is quietly charming, smart as hell, and can be a scary fucker when he wants to be. 

Like, genuinely terrifying.

And Dean would be lying if he said that it wasn’t just the _tiniest_ bit hot. 

Okay, so it’s surface-of-the-sun levels of hot, but barring any real evidence that Cas is even into him, those kinds of thoughts aren’t helpful, which means Dean has to cut them off at the pass. 

Because, unfortunately for both Dean’s sanity and libido, and despite Dean’s late-night suspicions of game-playing, Cas has been nothing but a gentleman toward him. They’ve been sleeping in Cas’ bed every night, the two of them skin to skin, nothing between them but the thin barrier of their underwear. And, at the risk of sounding like a cheesy boyband, it’s tearing Dean the fuck up. 

The only reason he hasn’t spontaneously combusted from sexual frustration is ‘cause he’s never slept better. Which is pretty much the only thing that’s keeping him tethered to reality. 

So, Dean magnanimously (ha) allows Cas to mold himself around his body every single night. Lets the steadiness of Cas’ breathing lull him to sleep. 

He tells himself that he doesn’t make a move ‘cause he doesn’t wanna fuck this up, can’t lose the one good thing in his life, the only thing he has to look forward to when he opens his eyes in the morning.

It’s not even a lie. 

  
  


***

Life continues. But it’s like Dean is just going through the motions, waiting for the next ‘present’, note, whatever. He’s barely a participant in his own existence. He goes where he’s told, turns up to his remaining classes, hands his essays in, phones in his part of the group project. 

During dead week, he even considers doing the traditional naked run through the library in order to relieve some stress, but Cas nixes that idea. Probably sensibly. 

It’s now the first week of finals — seventeen days since the roses — and Dean should be studying, but his brain is stuck on midnight static, just fuzzing away, nothing going in or out. 

It’s kinda nice actually. Just nothingness instead of a constant bombardment of thoughts. 

It’s supposed to be Garth’s babysitting shift, but at the last minute, he begs off to go hang out with a girl he’s been getting close to. Benny — who’s not on the roster for some unknown reason — offers to step up and keep Dean ‘company’. 

It makes no difference to Dean who’s on babysitting duty, as long as _someone’s_ around to ensure that Dean doesn’t end up as the Reese Witherspoon to Mark Wahlberg in Fear. 

(No matter how hot he was). 

Benny herds him to his off-campus place. Dean goes, ‘cause resistance is futile, and if it gets back to Cas that Dean’s being difficult, he’ll receive The Glare™. 

Though, some perverse part of him kinda likes it, sorta wants to see what happens when Cas loses it. Maybe he’ll sweep all the books and clutter off his desk and fuck Dean over it. 

_Hope springs eternal._

And Dean certainly is _springing_. Like, _all the fucking time_. 

Well. Except for now. Now he’s just annoyed. Sitting on his nice couch, drinking his nice beer, Benny’s being _nice_ , and it’s pissing Dean the fuck off. He’s not some delicate flower, dammit. Sure, things are crazy, and he most certainly wishes that this shit wasn’t happening, but he’s an adult. All this coddling is just making him want to rebel. 

He’s not sure how, but as soon as his exams are over — two down, two to go — he’s gonna figure that shit out, Girls Gone Wild style.

Maybe he’ll finally nut up and make a move on Cas. Wouldn’t that be something?

_Don’t go being too crazy, now._

In the meantime, he’s just gotta grin and bear it. 

“How are things?” Benny asks quietly, like Dean’ll sprout a hairline crack if he’s too rough.

“Not so bad,” Dean answers, not looking away from Benny’s TV screen, where Bruce Campbell is busy having a dance-off with the cabin. 

“You seem…” Benny trails off on a sigh. “I dunno.”

Ignoring Benny’s lame-ass attempt to mother him, Dean tilts the rim of his beer bottle at the TV. “This scene had to be the inspiration for the possessed hand trope, right? Like Idle Hands and all those movies?”

Benny says nothing, but Dean can feel the weight of his stare. 

It makes his skin itch. 

Dean lets it slide for the first few minutes. Right up until Mr. Campbell gets the finger from his own hand. And yeah, Dean feels that shit to his fucking bones. 

Bone _r_.

_Un-fucking-helpful._

“ _What?_ ” he demands impatiently, pausing the movie and turning to face Benny on his couch. He brings one knee up, steels himself for the pity-party Benny’s about to throw him. 

But it doesn’t come.

Instead, Benny shoots him a lopsided grin that has something inside him rattling loose. “You wanna get out of here and do somethin’ fun?”

What Dean _wants_ is to resent the implication that watching Bruce Campbell going nuts in a remote cabin isn’t fun, but he _is_ starting to feel like a prisoner in his own life. He needs to do _something, anything_ to blow off some steam before he ends up shivving someone for a pudding cup.

“What did you have in mind?”

  
  


***

  
  


So. As it turns out, Benny and Dean have very different ideas about what constitutes fun. 

He’s not quite sure what he was expecting, but it wasn’t _this._

The Botanical Garden. 

Yeah. What the fuck? 

Literally _nobody_ under the age of thirty thinks that wandering around staring at plants is more fun than an Evil Dead marathon. 

And if they do, then Dean doesn’t wanna know them. 

On the singular upside to this dismal situation, Benny did have the decency to at least buy Dean some food, which — even if it’s not the way to his heart — at the very least makes him less likely to bitch the whole way around this snoozefest. 

_Could be watching Bruce Campbell fighting a zombified version of himself right now._

So he munches on his corn dog and trudges after Benny, his cute but boring babysitter, as he points out random facts about the growth of stuff that Dean will never ever remember.

“Here it is!” Benny announces with far too much enthusiasm, and dashes off up some narrow stone steps into a skewer of cacti.

_That’s the collective name for cacti, right? Skewer? Prickle? Barb?_

“Dude,” Dean huffs, mouth full of batter and sausage. Which, whilst tasty, ain’t exactly the kind of sausage he’s been dreaming about. “I’m not following you in there.”

“Then you’ll never see the fabled boobie cactus, will ya?”

_The what now?_

Nobody told him that plants had boobs. 

Wiping his hands off on his jeans and tossing the stick into the nearest trash can, Dean follows Benny into the prickle of spiky fuckers.

“Holy shit,” he mumbles, still munching. Benny’s standing to the left of a tall, slim plant that has a series of bumps that do indeed look like green breasts. 

“I feel like a pervert just looking at it,” Dean says, though it isn’t stopping him. “There’s gotta be a penis one, right?”

“All cacti are kinda phallic,” Benny points out. 

Dean eyes a really squat one with red spikes. “Speak for yourself, man.”

Benny laughs, which sets Dean off too. Dude’s got a really infectious laugh. And it’s pretty cathartic to laugh about something so dumb after the stress of the last month. 

_Benny’s right. This is kinda fun._

Benny’s eyes are fond when they meet Dean’s again. “C’mon. I’m pretty sure there’s a few that are _actually_ shaped like cocks.” 

His broad shoulder brushes against Dean’s as he moves past to exit out the way they came. Dean fumbles his phone out of his pocket. “I’ll be there in a sec!” he yells after him, flipping it open. 

He’s gonna take a picture for Jo; she’ll love this shit. 

Just as he’s pressing the shutter button, he hears a camera go off behind him. Timed perfectly with his own photo.

Pulse racing, chest thudding, Dean turns. 

There’s nobody there. 

_Shit._

Does he call out to Benny? The picture-taking could’ve been harmless, could’ve just been another patron getting a shot of a plant.

The thought calms him somewhat, but his heart is still pounding against his ribcage as he exits the barb. He watches his feet as he climbs down the steps, not quite trusting his wobbly legs without supervision.

At the bottom of the steps, he glances around, scanning the area. He can’t see Benny anywhere.

A shiver of fear wisps through him. Which is stupid, 'cause this is a public place. What kind of moron would actually jump him here? 

“Benny?”

A couple passes by him, holding hands and lost in each other's eyes.

_Which way?_

He dithers for a couple of seconds, trying to figure out which way Benny is likely to have gone, before he starts to walk, gravel crunching underfoot. His phone is still in his hand, clutched so tight that he can feel the plastic creaking. 

“Benny?” he calls out, then adds under his breath, “Where the fuck are you, man?”

He follows the path, eyes darting this way and that, but there’s no sign of either Benny or anyone with a camera at the ready.

 _Fuck._

He’s about to try for the exit, when he — not paying attention to where he’s going — walks straight into someone, his shoulder slamming pretty hard into a solid chest. 

“Shit, sorry—” Dean begins to say, stepping back, but then he gets a proper look at the guy, and embarrassment quickly slides into dread.

It’s the creeper from across the hall. 

“Dude, what the fuck?” Dean spits out, scared and _angry_. “Did you follow me here?”

The guy’s eyes widen, all faux-innocence, his hands fanning out defensively, and he’s about to open his mouth to say something, when Benny appears at Dean’s side, breathless, like he’d been searching for him.

“Dean? You okay?” When he doesn’t get an immediate answer, he looks between Dean and the creeper, trying to figure it out for himself. “What’s goin’ on?”

“Nothing, Benny,” Dean answers darkly, sizing up the guy in front of him, trying to appear not at all shaken by the encounter, even though it seems like every bone in his body is trembling. “C’mon, let’s go.”

Dean shoves past the guy and Benny hurries to follow. 

“What the fuck was that?” 

“Nothing, Benny,” Dean repeats, a time-delayed echo of himself. He can barely hear above the rush of blood in his ears, like listening to the sea in a shell, except it’s all around him, roaring and tumultuous. “It doesn’t matter.”

As they approach the exit, Dean’s trying to shuck the icky feeling, trying not to remember how the guy smelled — spicy cologne and sweat and distinctly un-stalker-like — in favor of focusing on getting the fuck out of here and back to Cas and safety. 

They speed-walk the rest of the way to the main gate in silence, Dean occasionally throwing a glance over his shoulder to make sure they aren’t being followed. 

They’re almost there, the iron railings are in sight, but then something catches Dean’s eye. 

There’s a noticeboard-map-thingy near the entrance. They’d glanced at it on their way in, Benny insisting that they check it in case of plant-based emergencies (or something, Dean wasn’t actually listening, too busy with his corndog and general disappointment). 

But now, as Dean approaches the noticeboard the way one might a rabid animal, his focus is entirely on it. 

‘Cause taped right in the center of the map is a photo of Dean standing next to the boobie cactus. 

  
  
  


***

  
  


He practically runs back to their dorm, ricocheting past bodies in the hallway, photo clutched in a death grip. 

According to Dean’s memorization of the color-coded exam timetable pinned above Cas’ desk, his roommate-slash-self-appointed-bodyguard should be back by now.

When Dean shoulders in through their door, Cas is sitting curved over a textbook at his desk. A cover of Wild Horses is playing on the radio. 

Dean starts babbling, just a stream of jumbled consciousness, hoping that Cas can pick out the bits of coherency and piece the puzzle together for himself. ‘Cause Dean’s spent the last twenty minutes over here winding himself up tighter and tighter, until he’s stretched taut, ready to snap. There’s no way he can even begin to make sense of this shit. 

“Dean?” Cas says, twisting in his seat, dropping his pen when Dean shoves the photo into his hands. “What— Oh. It’s not a bad photo,” he muses, before Dean’s had a chance to let him know the context. He looks up at him, expression open and pure. “You went to the Botanical Garden?”

“Yeah,” Dean rushes out, “With Benny, but that’s not important—”

“Oh.” Cas gets that little frowny-face thing going. “You went to the Garden with Benny? On a date?”

 _Now_ so _isn’t the time for this._

Dean skates right on by that shit. “Listen, somebody took this photo of me. Without my fucking consent, man. It’s gotta be my stalker.”

Cas glances down at the photo and then back up at Dean, storm clouds gathering behind clear blue eyes. His frown deepens, displeasure written in every line of his face. “Your stalker took this? He was there?”

Dean drags a hand through his hair, “Yeah.” He takes a deep breath, swallows his embarrassment, crosses the room to shut the door, before going back to Cas’ side. “The creepy guy from across the hall was there. I accidentally ran into him. Then this photo showed up.”

Something unsettling comes over Cas, before his expression goes relentlessly blank. "What?"

"It has to be him, right? ‘Cause otherwise it’s just too much of a coincidence he was there.”

Cas is up and out of his seat before Dean can react. By the time Dean reanimates, Cas is halfway out the door, and Dean flails uselessly, chasing after him. “Cas!”

But Cas isn’t listening, already across the hallway, banging his fist clutching the photo on the creeper’s closed door. 

_Oh, shit._

“Cas!” Dean grabs at his roommate’s shirt. “Stop, man!”

The lethal look Cas levels at him crushes the air from Dean's lungs. 

He feels crazy, balanced on the precipice of something he can't see. 

Cas' jaw flexes. His words are chosen carefully and spoken through the grit of his teeth. “He needs to account for his actions.”

_Jesus Christ, Cas._

“I don’t know for definite that it’s even him!” Dean protests uselessly, after he practically accused the guy. He doesn’t know what the solution is, but this doesn’t feel like it. 

He curves a hand around Cas’ bicep. “Cas, please. It’ll just make things worse. For now, I’ll just do what the cops say — I’ll keep a diary of everything that happens.”

The words taste like ash in his mouth. He doesn’t even believe the things he’s saying, and judging by Cas’ expression, he knows it too. 

“He won’t stop until somebody makes him,” Cas says, unhinged and thready. 

“And you think beating the shit outta him would stop him?” Dean asks, trying to be the sensible one here, but the idea of retribution for all the shit he’s been put through in the last month or so actually sounds pretty damn good.

“It would certainly make _me_ think twice.”

“Yeah, but that’s _you._ You’re not the fucking nutjob trying to get into my pants through thinly veiled threats and molestation.”

Cas turns back to the door. The creeper isn’t coming. “No. I suppose not.”

A girl passes by them, smiling nervously. Which is probably fair enough. Cas ain’t even wearing any shoes; he’s just standing barefoot in the hallway, in sweatpants and a threadbare shirt, looking like he’s about to send someone to an early grave. 

It makes Dean nervous too. And really kinda horny. 

He leans in close to Cas, voice low, “For all we know, it could just feed into his perverted fantasies or whatever. He might feel justified or some shit, I dunno. He could get off on my — and by proxy, your — reaction.”

“I hadn’t considered that.”

“I don’t think there was much you considered on your five-second journey over here to break the dude’s nose,” Dean jokes, semi-relieved that he’s managed to defuse the situation.

For now. 

Cas finally relents with a slump of his shoulders. “Fine. But I will be watching him.” 

  
  


***

  
  


Later that night, curled around Dean in what has become _their_ bed, Cas asks, “Was it a date?”

_What?_

Oh.

Even the thought pokes holes in him. It's almost like Cas couldn’t believe _he's_ the one Dean dreams himself hard about.

“No. Benny just wanted me to have some fun. I think he could see that I was going kinda crazy.”

Cas hums. Dean feels the vibrations deep in his chest. “I have an invitation to a party, if you’d like to come with me. That might be fun.”

_It might be. Or it could be another disaster._

“In the entire year we’ve roomed together, Cas, you have never ever wanted to go to a party before.”

“It’s never been the end of the year before.”

Dean licks his lips, tries not to give himself away by the uncertainty in his voice. “Would it be like, uh, a date?”

“It could be.”

Tongue-tied and knee-deep in surprise, Dean can’t quite reel himself in. “Really? You want to go with _me_?”

“Yes.”

Warmth sprawls in Dean’s chest. His grin aches on his face. 

_Play it cool, Winchester._

Eh, playing it cool is for people who don’t enjoy boobie plants and trashy horror movies.

“Yeah. I’d love to go with you, Cas.”

  
  


***

_Angelface_ , Meg calls Cas over the thumping bass of some rave track. The three of them are standing in the hallway of the off-campus, two-floor, self-proclaimed ‘party house’. The rowdy party is already in full swing, full of people Dean doesn’t know. In one of the adjoining rooms, beyond a sliding glass door — which seems like an accident waiting to happen — there’s a singular mass of people made up of guys with beers in their hands and girls with short skirts, big hair, and pouty lips, grinding on each other, moving in time with the pulsing beat of the music. 

The whole place has a baked-in, unpleasant, familiar stench permeating the walls: sweat-stink and a miasma of stale booze and weed.

“Meg,” Cas responds, and it’s spoken with fondness, but whether that fondness has ever led to penis-in-vagina action is something Dean has not yet discovered.

He could ask; he’s the one in Cas’ bed these days, but it’s purely platonic, and perhaps all the more sad for it.

What twenty-year-old sleeps in the same bed as the friend he’s in love with but hasn’t told, ‘cause the thought of rejection is scarier than the psychopath taking photos of him and sending blood-red bouquets?

_This fucking guy._

Dean lets out a hot breath, tired and frustrated.

He glances at Cas, who’s leaning in close to Meg, all secretive and hushed sweet-nothings, and _fuck this_ , Dean needs a drink. Or ten.

He makes the universal sign for ‘drink’ in Cas’ vague direction, before he shoves through the bodies in the hallway, searching for the kitchen. 

_Some fucking date._

  
  


***

On the list of things Dean knows about Cas — his ruthlessness when it comes to Mortal Kombat, his aptitude for anything he puts his mind to, his ability to render Dean speechless with just a look — the fact that he’s apparently kinda popular amongst his peers completely passed Dean by. Sure, they’re in different disciplines and therefore run in different academic circles, but jeez, it’s like he’s the rockstar of the sociology-slash-poli-sci community. People are naturally drawn to him, touching him casually, like it’s just something they’re _allowed_ to do. 

Like they don’t have to over-analyze every single facet of their interaction. 

At first, Dean does his best to keep up with all the names and faces in Cas’ personal space, staying by Cas’ side as they move through the party together, warmed by the way Cas laughs at nerdy jokes. Every single time, after the other person leaves, Cas leans in super close, eyes and words all for Dean, and explains the joke. Not in a patronizing way, just making sure Dean’s in on it rather than being an outsider. 

It’s all fine and barely dandy, until Dean physically cannot take the jealousy anymore. It burns hot like coal in the pit of his stomach. Dean wants to touch Cas like that, wants to be the only one Cas touches, wants those hands on _him_ , instead of some twink-looking blond boy with a name three syllables too long. 

So, before he does something stupid, he makes a tactical retreat to the kitchen for more beer. And then, when he’s sure Cas isn’t watching, he disappears off somewhere quiet with two-thirds of a six-pack, so he can sulk in peace. 

***

Meg finds him as he’s nursing his sixth... _seventh?_ beer of the night, feeling sorry for himself. He’s sitting in the quietest part of the house, at the bottom of the stairs with a velvet rope and typed sign that marks this end of the hall as off-limits. She sashays up to him, all casual, like they’re best buds or some shit. It rubs Dean the wrong way instantly. 

“Hey, you. I’ve been looking all over for you. Clarence is worried.”

“Clarence?”

She sighs, like Dean’s a moron. It needles at him. He’ll put up with it from his friends, but he barely knows (or likes) Meg. “Castiel.”

“Ah,” Dean tips up his bottle. “ _Angelface_.”

A slow, evil smile spreads across her face. “Aw,” she coos, “You jealous, handsome?”

“Nope,” Dean lies, grimacing around the taste of the shitty PBR-type beer. “Just annoyed that I’ll have to drag his ass down to the clinic when he’s done with you.”

“Well, aren’t you charming.”

“It has been said.”

She looks at him askance. “Can’t see the wood for the trees, can you?” Ripping the bottle from his hands, she drinks the rest of it down, and tosses the empty away to her left. “For someone smart enough to get into the mechanical engineering program at Berkeley, you sure are a fucking idiot.”

“Why don’t you enlighten me, then?” Dean snaps, annoyed for more reasons than having to get up now to grab another beer. 

She stares down at him, considering. “I _could_. But all this beautiful angst is just too delicious.”

“Why is Cas even friends with you?” Dean wonders aloud. “Like, sure, you’re pretty in a mean kinda way, but if he’s not fucking you, then why would he keep you around, ‘cause, no offense, you’re a total bitch.”

Her delicate eyebrows hit her hairline before she relaxes into her fallback smirk. “I know where the bodies are buried. Which brings me neatly to my next point.” She leans down into Dean’s space, alcohol on her breath, the scent of her sickly sweet perfume cloying. “Please bear in mind that Castiel is my friend, and if you do anything, and I mean _anything_ to hurt him, I will come for you. Got that?”

Dean’s a little confused, but he nods, eyes drifting away from her, fixing on Cas, who’s appeared in the doorway behind her, brow dipping, annoyed.

“Meg.”

Meg straightens up instantly, caught out, and then she’s slinking over to Cas. She pats him on the chest, her purple claws snagging on the soft fabric of Cas’ shirt. “Just telling him how things are, Clarence. Nothing to worry about.”

“That’s what I _am_ worried about.”

Over Cas’ shoulder, Dean catches a glimpse of the creeper from across the hall. He doesn’t look in Dean’s direction, but there’s a smug expression on his stupid face, which tells Dean all he needs to know. 

The sudden urge to puke has nothing to do with all the alcohol he’s downed.

“Err...” Dean struggles to his feet with the help of the banister. “Just gonna head to the bathroom.”

Cas makes as if to come to his aid, but Dean’s head is spinning and he needs to be somewhere out of Cas’ reach, somewhere he can focus for two goddamn seconds without his stare weighing Dean down. 

He dodges Cas’ hand and throws open the nearest door in the hallway.

In what turns out to be his first and only lucky break this semester, it’s a bathroom.

_Thank fuck._

He nearly trips over his own feet as he stumbles into the pristine white room, clearly untouched by the party raging on around them. 

For good measure, he slides the lock across. 

_Jesus._

He slouches up against the closed door and squeezes his eyes shut against the seasick tilt of the pine-fresh room. 

“Fuck,” he pants, trying to drag himself back together, even as it seems like bits of him are falling away. 

Nothing about his life right now feels real. He’s sleeping in the bed of his roommate, the one he’s in love with, the one who brought him here to a college party, as his it-could-be-a date. He’s got a stalker who seems to enjoy reminding him of his presence right as Dean’s pushing it to the back of his mind. It’s as though he doesn’t want Dean to forget him, is scared of not occupying Dean’s thoughts for even a moment. 

Dean forces his eyes open. There’s a mirror above the white porcelain sink with crimson words scrawled in lipstick. He staggers toward it, braces himself on the edge of the sink, and stares at the words until his vision cooperates and the meaning penetrates the fog of his brain.

**_I’ll never let you go._ **

Dean rubs hard at his right eye with the heel of his hand. Is this actually happening? He reaches up, smudges the lipstick with his forefinger. 

Yep. It sure fucking is.

Because the ominous threat-slash-promise isn’t quite The-House-on-Sorority-Row enough, there’s a picture tucked into the bottom right corner of the mirror.

Of course, it’s of him. 

It’s from the same day as the Botanical Garden a week and a half ago, taken a little earlier, when Benny was paying for Dean’s corn dog.

Jesus fucking Christ, the guy followed them the whole way round?

It’s too much. Dean’s hit the upper limit of what he can bear. 

With a shaking hand, he turns on the faucet. He splashes cold water on his face and lets it drip down. He looks up at the mirror again. 

Yep. Still there. 

_Fuck._

Rage bubbles to the surface, pure and undiluted. The kind of unseeing anger that pushes the bounds of all rational thought. The kind that ends in blood and tears.

He’s gotta tell Cas.

  
  


***

  
  


Luckily, Cas hasn’t gone far. In fact, he’s waiting outside the bathroom for Dean, propping up the wall opposite. 

Something flickers in and out of his eyes when his gaze meets Dean’s.

“Dean, what—”

“Come here.” Dean grabs him by the wrist and drags him to the bathroom. He shoves him at the mirror. “Look.”

They both eye the scrawl with a red-rimmed stare, though Dean suspects Cas is at least three beers more sober than him. “What the fuck—”

“Yeah.” Then, ‘cause Dean’s feeling malicious, he adds, “He’s here. Saw him before.”

Red rag to a bull. 

“I’m going to kill him.”

_Good._

Dean’s vicious with the bloodlust throbbing in his veins alongside the alcohol. He wants the fucker to _suffer_. 

He doesn’t need a knight in shining armor or anything, but he’ll take an angry-as-fuck _angelface_ with a mean right hook.

Maybe violence is the only thing this bastard will understand. 

And if not? Well, it’ll certainly make Dean feel a whole lot better. 

Cas barrels past him, fierce and single-minded. Dean follows, but not too quickly, ‘cause he doesn’t want to rein Cas in. 

By the time he reaches the main room, it’s already half-emptied. He gets carried on a second wave of movement toward the patio doors leading out to the decking. A chorus of ‘fight fight fight!’ goes up, and Dean knows without a doubt that it’s Cas and his stalker.

He pushes his way through the tight crush of bodies, desperate to see.

Right as he gets to the front, Cas’ fist curves towards the creeper’s temple. It connects and, shocked, the guy goes down. He tries to say something, maybe plead or whatever, but Cas won’t let him, shoving the words back down his throat with his fist. 

Jesus fucking Christ.

Every blow that Cas lands gets slicker and wetter, until the air smells like pennies from all the blood. The crowd has gone quiet, the one-sided nature of the fight not sportsman-like, but nobody is stepping forward to help either. 

The creeper’s face is nothing but streaks of red and drool, so Dean reluctantly detaches himself from the crowd and approaches Cas like he’s a wild animal, right as the creeper’s cheekbone crunches underneath his knuckles. 

Cas has the creeper’s tearing collar in one fist, holding him there as he lays into him with the other one, and Dean manages a quiet, “Cas.”

His fist stops mid-air, knuckles red. A muscle in his jaw tics. 

“Cas, it’s okay, man. Think he’s got the message.”

Though Dean wishes they could really hammer the point home, by writing ‘I’ll never let you go’ in his blood — the precise shade as the lipstick on the mirror — but judging by the wary expressions on the sea of faces, that likely wouldn’t be well-received. 

Cas’ eyes are glittering black when he finally looks up at Dean. It makes Dean shiver all the way to his dick.

_Fuck._

Cas lets go of the creeper, who slumps to the decking. The guy’s chest rises and falls unevenly, his breathing ragged, so he’s not dead. 

_Shame._

Meg’s suddenly there, standing between them and the stunned crowd. “Nothing to see here, people!” she yells, sweeping her arms around and herding everyone back inside. 

Dean and Cas stare at each other.

There’s a light breeze in the air. 

Someone — Meg — shoves a first-aid kit into Dean’s hand with the chewed-out instruction, “Tape that idiot’s hands up. I’ll take care of this.”

It’s enough to break the spell, and Dean jerks his head toward the decking steps leading down onto the lawn. “C’mon.”

Cas follows, wordlessly allowing Dean to lead him to a slatted bench at the end of the garden. He sits and watches with a glazed-over expression as Dean crouches down in front of him in the grass. 

“You’ve split your knuckles, Rocky,” Dean murmurs. He takes the Neosporin, gauze, and tape out, and begins to methodically clean Cas’ knuckles, swiping at them with one cotton pad after another until he reaches the abraded skin. “Though, that _was_ pretty badass.”

Cas’ voice is rough when he says, “Yeah?” as he stares down at Dean, cool blue against the red-hot embers of a California sunset.

“Yeah,” Dean confirms. “Thanks for defending my honor, man. Well, what’s left of it anyways.”

Cas reaches out and cups the side of Dean’s face, “Anytime.” There’s something heavy in there, something substantial and deep-rooted, giving the word meaning beyond what he’s saying aloud.

_Fuck._

All the months of pining cease to matter, and before Dean can think better of it, he leans forward, bracing his palms on Cas’ thighs, and kisses him.

It’s kinda sweet at first, just an innocent press of mouths, but then Cas makes an agonized sound, grasps Dean’s face in his bloodied hands and tilts his head to the side, and kisses him like he fucking means it. Their tongues slide together, slick and wet, both of them making hungry little noises as they devour each other. Cas kisses like he wants to crawl inside him, desperate and intense, like he’s been waiting a lifetime for this moment. Dean understands completely, and he collapses into Cas, hands sliding up and around the back of his neck, fingertips gripping at the fine hairs there, pulling him even closer. 

As far as first kisses go, it’s perfect.

Cas breaks away, panting, pressing their foreheads together. “Wow.”

“Yeah,” Dean agrees on an airless shiver, heart pounding, dick half-hard in his jeans. “Jesus, Cas. I had no idea you could kiss like that, man. Or fight like that. You a secret badass or something?”

Cas’ mouth, extra-pink and shiny from Dean’s kiss, tilts up in a smile. “Or something.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I’m sure most of you have noticed the latest tag to be added. You know that scene in The End, where Lucifer is wearing Sam and he tells Dean in the garden outside the sanitarium that: _"Whatever you do, you will always end up here. Whatever choices you make, whatever details you alter, we will always end up—here."?_
> 
> Yeah, that’s how I feel RE: that tag.

**Present Day, Hotel on Haunted Hill**

  
  


Cas and Dean break into a run at pretty much the same time, rushing blindly through the corridor, the beams from their flashlights darting across the ceiling and floor. They follow the direction of the noise, the one that isn’t quite a scream. More of a squawk. 

The fact that it’s still going on, the noise reverberating off the stone walls and echoing in the mostly empty rooms, at least means Charlie’s alive and not in any immediate danger. Unless she’s trying to keep a murderer at bay by imitating a bird of prey.

(Though what kind of bird, Dean can’t even begin to guess. Maybe one that’s vocal cord surgery to make it sound like Phil Anselmo).

In their haste, Dean and Cas damn near fall through a stairwell door that’s barely hanging onto its hinges and come out on the second-floor landing. Giving access to above and below, the stairs sweep away from them in both directions, grand in their heyday — like the rest of this place — now just old and dilapidated.

The noise happens again, and this time it’s much louder. Also, it sounds much more like an emotionally repressed camel.

_At least she’s changing it up._

“Charlie?” Dean shouts, not quite leaning on the banister — he’s not that brave — as he shines his flashlight above and below, looking for that shock of red hair.

“We’re up here!” 

_‘We.’ That’s a good sign._

The pair of them begin the climb up the carpeted stairs, taking the shallow steps two at a time. 

Charlie’s ‘90s-metal-singer-slash-bird-in-a-blender screeching has stopped now that Dean and Cas have located her, but Dean’s stomach is still roiling with the uncertainty as to what awaits them at the top. 

_Fuuuuck. Nobody be dead._

As they round the corner, Dean almost slips on one of the postcards littered around up here, but Cas catches him by the upper arm at the last second and stops him from getting a face full of ancient carpet. 

Charlie and the others are standing at the top of the stairs leading to the third floor. Cas and Dean stop right at the curve, a good fifteen steps below, the scatter of postcards separating them. 

_Thank fuck. Everyone’s alive._

“What?” Dean asks breathlessly, hand on the rickety banister. “What is it? Everyone okay?” He glances between the three of them, fixing each one with a quick once-over. 

No blood, broken bones, bruises.

Exhaling on a shaky sigh of relief, he gives himself a New York minute to regulate his racing heart. Fuck, he hasn’t run like that since his junior year in college. Bending over, hands on his thighs, he looks up at Charlie. “Jesus fucking Christ, Charlie. We thought you were getting murdered or some shit."

"If I was, some help you two would be," she shoots back. "I could be dead ten times over in the time it took you to get here."

A slight exaggeration, but okay. 

“Your method of summoning us leaves a lot to be desired,” Cas tells her, not as winded as Dean, so he’s able to give her The (full-throttle) Glare™. “Did you have to shout like that?”

It’s a good point. If _they_ heard Charlie from all the way downstairs, there’s a good chance any weirdo stalking the corridors did too. 

“How else am I supposed to get your attention?” she demands, all kinds of menacing as she stands there, iron poker in hand, like a strict Catholic schoolmarm ready to give a couple of kids a good caning for getting caught making out in the vestibule. “Smoke signals? Carrier pigeon? Our phones don’t work.”

_Shit, yeah._

Another good reason they shouldn’t have split up. 

You never think you’re gonna be the dumb idiots in a horror movie until you’re the dumb idiots in a horror movie.

“I see _you two_ found each other though,” Benny mutters, the disapproving headmaster to Charlie’s schoolmarm.

Well, yeah. Wasn't that the point of Benny telling Cas where Dean was?

Cas said that, right? Or did Dean just fever dream that in the aftermath of his orgasm?

“Well?” Cas’ snappish question directed at the other three interrupts Dean’s thought process. “What was so important that you needed to get our attention using the mating call of a howler monkey?”

And that’s being kind. 

It’s Garth’s turn to speak, which he does with the wide-eyed terror of every creepy-as-fuck kid in a horror movie. “Dean, look.” He points down at one of the postcards. 

Dean tracks to where Garth’s pointing, and he bends down. As he gets closer, he realizes he isn’t looking at a postcard at all. It’s a photograph.

_Oh, holy shit._

It’s a photo of him fourteen years ago, sitting in the plaza at college, heartbroken ‘cause he’d walked in on Cas and Meg getting jiggy with it. 

_What the actual fuck?_

“Dean,” Cas murmurs, bending down next to him. Hands steadier than Dean’s, Cas picks up a couple more photos. One is of Dean at UC’s Botanical Garden, another is of Benny buying Dean a corn dog.

The ever-widening fissure in the self-built wall between Dean’s past and present officially ruptures, splintering darkness in from the other side.

It’s the scariest thing that’s happened all night.

‘Cause behind that painstakingly constructed partition is a wealth of shit he's not allowed himself to think about beyond the abstract, it-happened-to-somebody-else kind of way. He's the king of compartmentalization. And for good reason, 'cause the thing that bound him and Cas close is the very same thing that ended up tearing them apart. 

_The ties that bind._

Cas is in his bones, his blood.

“Cas, what the fuck is this, man?” Something rattles loose inside him. He can feel it reverberating against his soul, the blackened, charred parts of him. He knows that he sounds wrecked when he asks in a broken, little-boy-lost voice, “How can this be happening again?”

Short answer is that it can’t. Long answer is a supernatural entity. 

“I don’t know,” Cas answers, his mouth dipped in confusion as he stares down at the photos in their hands. “It’s not possible.”

Logically, Dean knows that. But apparently, there’s no room for logic here. ‘Cause whatever alternate dimension they’ve found themselves in, it’s one that breaks the rules of life and death, and Dean certainly wants no fucking part of _that_ , thank you very much. 

(The dead coming back to life always ends badly. Has nobody learned anything from Re-Animator? Or literally every zombie movie ever?)

"Could this be your stalker again, Dean?" Charlie asks gently, tiptoeing around Dean’s damage, and here they fucking go with the pity, the sympathy. 

He hates that voice, _hates it_. 

It’s at the wrong end of the emotional spectrum; he doesn’t want commiseration, he wants veneration. 

See, the repercussions of stalking aren’t just the obvious shit. Like a fear of literally anyone that you come into contact with (besides those you trust absolutely, if you’re lucky enough to have that trust). Oh, no. For Dean, getting stalked included denial and self-doubt (two things he was already pretty adept at, before some fucking maniac started Glenn Close-ing him), an inability to sleep (unless with Cas; he could always sleep when in bed with Cas), anxiety, memory lapses, hypervigilance, and homicidal thoughts. 

It’s that last one that’s important here. 

‘Cause as far as the others are concerned, Dean’s stalker _could_ theoretically be walking around an abandoned hotel, banging pipes and scattering creepy pictures in stairwells. After all, the official line is that Arthur Ketch — weird, British guy studying history at Berkeley on an international scholarship — left for winter vacation and disappeared. Probably went back to the land of tea and crumpets, ‘cause he missed his mummy. 

Of course, Cas and Dean know differently. 

“It can’t be,” Dean says, unable to tear his eyes away from the twenty-year-old version of himself looking miserable as hell, ‘cause he thought Cas didn’t like him.

He almost wants to laugh. Cas not liking him was never the problem.

“Why not?” Charlie presses, and Dean feels Cas stiffen against his side.

This is _them_. It’s nobody else's business.

“It doesn’t matter, okay?” Dean snaps, finally looking up at his friends, who are watching him with mixed expressions. He snatches the photos out of Cas’ hands and passes them — along with the one he’s holding — to Garth. “Just take my word for it. This cannot be my fucking college stalker. And why _would_ it be? After all this time? C’mon.”

Even as he says the words though, there’s some tiny part of him that wonders, _‘what if?’_

The multi-tool feels like it’s burning a hole in his pocket. 

“Well, if it ain’t the stalker, then who else might have access to those photos?” Benny asks, eyeing both Dean and Cas with a suspicious squint. 

“Nobody,” Cas answers for the both of them. 

Because they burned all those photos. Along with Arthur Ketch’s body. 

Of course, it makes sense that there were copies, for fuck’s sake. But only the stalker — or someone who knew the stalker, perhaps — would have access to them. And since reanimation ain’t possible, that rules out the former and rests this fucking mess solely at the latter’s feet. 

_But why? Who?_

“Well, then. That seems to leave only one explanation,” Benny drawls, still eyeing the way Cas and Dean are standing so close that there’s absolutely no space between them. “It’s gotta be your stalker, Dean.”

_Nope._

“No,” Dean says, but this time, the denial is shakier. “Look, it can’t be him, it just can’t.”

“I know this is difficult, Dean—” Charlie says softly, and no, she doesn’t know _shit_. If it weren’t for Cas all those years ago, Dean would’ve gone coo-coo bananas and gotten himself a one-way ticket to the nuthouse.

Dean's pretty sure that whoever came up with the phrase 'thick as thieves' to denote secret-keeping and intimacy never met a pair of murder boyfriends so crazy in love that in the winter break of their junior year, they murdered a man, burned him, and buried him in the fire trails.

It’s been their secret for thirteen long years. Not even their brutal, soul-destroying split made either one of them tell another living person.

Cas has never let him down. 

_You’ve always been able to trust Cas._

“You remember when y’all used to babysit me?” Dean asks, but it’s not really a question, ‘cause he knows they do. “When you used to have to physically escort me everywhere, ‘cause I couldn’t be alone in case some psycho was waiting to pounce? Sitting there in the exam hall, unable to fucking concentrate in case he was watching me a few desks back or whatever. Fuck, I couldn’t even enjoy a day out with Benny, for Christ’s sake.”

Benny blanches at the reminder.

Cas slides an arm around Dean’s waist. He presses a lingering kiss to Dean’s temple. “It’s okay,” he murmurs, attempting to smooth out the wrinkles in Dean’s heart. “We’ll figure it out, like always.”

 _Cas has always kept you safe._

The others all look varying shades of awkward. Charlie’s eyes are cast downward, Garth is fiddling with the hem of his shirt, and Benny is staring studiously at the spot where Cas’ hand is resting possessively on Dean’s hip. 

“If it was so traumatizin’, then why’d you keep the multi-tool?”

_Fuck’s sake, Benny._

It’s a fair question though, ‘cause on the face of it, on a scale of one to Dean, how fucked in the head would you have to be to keep something that reminds you of the lowest point of your existence (so far)?

The answer is Dean plus Cas. ‘Cause there’s no better or worse folie à deux than them. They’re off the fucking scale. 

The multi-tool was, originally, what prison psychologists would probably call a trophy. Something tangible to look at and touch to remind Dean that what he and Cas did was real, that Dean was safe now. They had to get rid of everything else. The multi-tool is the only thing that tethers them to a crime performed out of the strongest love Dean’s ever known. 

Over the years though, the meaning got twisted. It was Dean’s way of reliving _Cas_. Of reliving that love, of making sense of it all. Cas killed someone to protect him. It could’ve ruined his entire life, but it didn’t matter, because from one heartbeat to the next, Cas murdered somebody for _Dean_. To keep Dean safe. Nobody has ever done anything like that for Dean before or since.

Dean’s flippant answer downstairs was a partial truth. It _is_ a reminder. But not of the time somebody liked him enough to follow his every move. No, it’s a reminder of the time somebody liked him enough to kill another human being for him. Some sick, dark part of him wanted to remind Cas of that, wanted Cas to feel as crazy about Dean as Dean still is about him. 

Turns out, with the thick taste of Cas at the back of his throat, he needn’t have worried.

But instead of telling his friends that, he simply says, “It reminds me of what I went through.”

It’s not a lie. Just not a whole truth. 

“From the sounds of it, you don’t need a reminder,” Benny presses, and Dean wishes that, just for once, he wouldn’t. 

Thankfully, Cas rides to his rescue, something burning around the edges of his glare. “I’m not seeing the relevance of this line of questioning.”

_Fucking lawyer._

Dean could kiss him.

Dean _can_ kiss him. 

He refrains for now, but he does snake an arm around Cas’ waist, the two of them against the world, like always.

Charlie glances down at the photos, then back up at Cas and Dean. “Alright. So if it’s not the stalker, who could it be?”

Dean’s got no idea. “You guys are the only ones who even knew about my stalker. And Jo, of course.”

“I haven’t thought about Jo in years,” Cas murmurs, his thumb stroking absently underneath Dean’s shirt, over his hip bone. 

Dean wishes he could say the same. But Jo was his best friend, and her death was yet another fucked-up thing in a long line of fucked-up things that happened in his junior year.

In the end, it all just made him cling to Cas tighter.

“You never told any of your exes?” Charlie prods, and sure, yeah, they all want an explanation for this crazy shit, but they certainly ain’t gonna find it there.

Dean’s laugh is bitter and hollow. “As if any of them stuck around long enough to even learn my address, let alone my fucked-up past.”

Cas’ hand tightens on Dean’s hip. 

It’s not even an exaggeration. Literally, every person he’s been with since Cas has gotten the fuck out whilst the going is good. Like they know that Dean’s tainted, _poison_. It’s not something he likes to dwell on, for obvious reasons, but he’s definitely asked the question ‘what the hell is wrong with me?’ late at night after someone dumped him by text yet-a-fucking-gain. 

“It has to be him, then,” Garth concludes. “I mean, back in college, he just dropped off the radar, right? One day, he simply stopped. Like the Zodiac. And he was never heard from again. So why can’t it be him now? It _has_ to be him.”

“No,” Cas says, right at the same time as Dean blurts angrily, "Not unless he rose from the fucking dead." 

And that’s it. His and Cas' secret is finally exposed after all these years.

The silence that follows is deafening.

"Wait. Run that past me again," Charlie says, advancing on the two of them, poker held in a way that suggests she’s not afraid to use it. "'Cause I could have sworn you said he was dead. And there's no way you could _know_ that with this level of certainty unless—"

"—they killed him." Benny finishes, crossing his arms across his chest, imperious and self-satisfied, and Dean wants to hit him. "Right, boys?"

_Fuck._

Benny knew? 

How the fuck could Benny know?

Dean nods, not able to trust his voice right now. 

Technically, it was Cas who actually pulled the trigger. But Dean was there too. Poured the lighter fluid over the corpse and set it alight. Counts for something, right?

"You killed him?" Garth asks incredulously, staring at them like they’re both certifiable. Which ain’t too far from the truth. "How, _when_?"

"It doesn't seem particularly relevant anymore," Cas tells him pointedly. "Because apparently, he's not dead."

"God," Dean mutters. "Of all the shit slasher movies to get stuck in and mine is I Know What You Did Last Summer."

He refuses to be the Sarah Michelle Gellar of this situation. If he's gotta be anyone, then he's at least a Jennifer Love Hewitt. 

“This is not the time to be flippant, Dean Winchester,” Charlie scolds, a finger in his face. “Whatever fucked-up shit you two did in college is coming back to bite all of us in the ass.” She gestures at Benny and Garth behind her. “So you’re gonna tell us everything. And I mean _everything_. Then we can decide what to do from there.”

_What the hell does she mean by that?_

The only thing that stops Dean from asking is the fact that there’s a more pressing issue at hand.

Namely, that there is definitely somebody else in this hotel. The pipe-banging was entirely deliberate and calculated, and whoever is here with them, ain't come to play truth or dare and watch scary movies.

_No, they wanna create their own scary movie._

Dean holds his hands up in surrender. “Look, I get that you guys want answers, but can we do this shit someplace else? Like, maybe a hundred miles away from here? We’ll tell you everything once we get the fuck outta here.”

  
  


***

Back downstairs in the dining room, everyone silently begins gathering up their things, not bothering to separate their belongings from one another’s, just grabbing shit as fast as they can. 

It’s tense as hell, and Dean’s only just realizing the consequences of his angsty admission on the stairs. It’s not like any of his friends are super virtuous — Charlie spent most of her spare time in college hacking the shit out of corporations — but he doubts they’ll be able to overlook capital murder. Not even if it was entirely justified. 

_Which it was._

When Dean reaches for the corner of his sleeping bag, his hand brushes against Cas’. He looks up, and their eyes catch and hold. It’s so stupid, so thoroughly fucking high school, that Dean almost lets out the panicked, hysterical laughter that’s been bubbling since they found the photos. Instead, he makes a strangled noise, and Cas — sensing Dean’s internal breakdown — shuffles closer on his haunches. 

Dean can’t quite meet his intense stare, so he buys himself some get-it-the-fuck-together time by glancing at the others, who are all still packing, before turning back to Cas and his x-ray vision, always able to see right through Dean’s bullshit and bravado. Dean crowds in close to ask, “What you thinking, man? Who the fuck is this? I mean, for argument’s sake, let’s say, he somehow did survive getting shot, burned, and is now pulling a Michael Myers. How the fuck did he know where we are?”

“I wish I could tell you,” Cas responds, full of blue-eyed earnestness. “But I have no answers for you right now.”

Dean’s always been a needy, greedy thing as far as Cas is concerned; desperate for his attention and love. And now that the two of them have abruptly been catapulted back thirteen years and a goddamn lifetime ago, Dean’s reverting back to his twenty-year-old, insecure self. 

So, he does the only thing that makes sense in the moment. He closes the infinitesimal gap between them and presses his mouth to Cas’. It’s nothing more than brief contact, familiarity and reassurance to counterbalance the familiarity and mounting dread. 

It’s everything that their kiss in the changing room wasn’t: comfort and love, as opposed to anger and lust. Two sides of the same coin, and they’ve always been better at the latter than the former, but they’ve also had some sickeningly tender moments over the years. 

Proving Dean’s point, Cas pulls away first, pressing their foreheads together. “It’s just you and me, Dean. Nobody else.”

It’s something they used to say to each other, a riff on a stupid Wahlberg movie Dean forced Cas to watch in college. 

“Yeah,” Dean agrees, barely a hair’s breadth between them. “You and me, Cas.”

Cas’ smile is all for him, stacked six deep with meaning, and Dean’s having a hard time remembering that this is their past and therefore not supposed to be their present. Or future.

_As if that matters anymore._

“Shit!” Charlie blurts, frustrated. 

Reminded that they aren’t, in fact, the only two people who exist in the world, Dean and Cas reluctantly part, and turn to find out what’s going on with Charlie. 

She’s crouched over her bag, frantically rummaging through. 

“What’s up?” Benny asks her. 

“My camera and the pictures I took today are missing.”

Everyone else exchanges worried glances. 

“He always did have a thing for picture-taking,” Cas murmurs next to Dean, _which, super-un-fucking-helpful, Cas._

“Anybody else missin’ anythin’?” Benny says.

Dean and Cas immediately start checking through their things. 

Nope, Dean’s not missing anything. But he didn’t bring anything of value, no electronics other than his cell, no car—

“Uh, guys?” Garth says. “I think the car keys are missing.”

“You _think_?” Dean demands at the same time he forces a laugh. Next to him, Cas is shaking his head. Benny makes a noise of disbelief. 

“Where were the keys, Garth?” Charlie asks, an edge of panic to her voice. 

“I left them in a pocket of my bag.”

“Shit,” Benny hisses, letting go of his half-rolled sleeping bag in favor of staring at Garth. “Have you checked _all_ the pockets, just in case?”

Garth bobs his head up and down. 

“Are you sure?” Charlie says, laying her flashlight on the floor. It rolls unevenly until it hits Cas’ foot. “You didn’t put them in your pants pocket instead?”

“I know where I put them,” Garth replies flatly.

“There couldn’t have been—” Charlie starts, but Dean interrupts her, tired of the interrogation. 

“Charlie, he’s not a fucking idiot. They’re not there, okay?”

“Maybe they fell out?” Benny says. “Y’know, when we were all shufflin’ around gettin’ ready to watch the movie.”

It’s as good a theory as any. 

“Maybe our boogeyman took them as a souvenir,” Dean mutters.

“Or to keep us from leaving,” Cas adds.

Garth moans.

_Nice one, Cas._

“It’s fine,” Dean reassures them and himself. “Mechanical engineer, remember? I can hotwire the thing and get us outta here. Let’s just keep on packing and get out of this fucking hotel. We can sort shit out from there.”

He gets an unenthused chorus of agreement. They get back to work with the packing.

Dean swipes an arm across his forehead, sweat dripping. 

He needs to get out of here. The room is starting to close in on him; he just needs to breathe for a precious few seconds. 

“I’m all packed up, so I’ll sort out the hotdog water,” he shakily tells the others, as he pushes to his feet, not waiting for any responses.

He grabs the saucepan — his excuse to leave this hell — and makes a break for the front door.

On the porch, the night black around him, he flicks his wrist and sends the water splashing down the steps and across the asphalt. He breathes deeply a couple of times, sucking the fresh air down into his lungs, holding it there, then releasing. 

It does help calm him, at least a little.

He’s about to go back inside again when a dark shape moves in the corner of his eye. He jerks his head to follow, but there’s nothing there.

It’s possible he’s going mad. Wouldn’t be the first time his marbles have rattled loose, but even so.

A chill of goosebumps sweeps across his skin.

He steps down from the porch, peering past where it juts out. There’s movement at the end of the hotel, rounding the far corner toward where the lawn and — if his mental map of this place is correct — the pool is. 

All he’s got weapon-wise is an empty saucepan. 

He’s tempted to shout out to the others, but that’ll just alert the fucker, so he starts to follow. Alone.

Again, not the smartest choice perhaps, but he’s been through this scary shit once. He will _not_ be victimized again. 

He follows the shadow all the way around to the pool building, finding his way by the gray light of the moon. Turning his head, Dean glances toward the hotel, looking up at the row of windows curving around this end of the building, half-expecting to see the ghost-face of a child or some shit.

As he approaches the pool again, the strip of murky windows reveals nothing but Dean’s moonlit reflection; thank fuck there’s nobody behind him, ‘cause he couldn’t cope with that type of jumpscare, honestly. His heart would probably give out.

He creeps closer, drawn by the sight of a small dark square tucked into one of the window frames. 

It’s a photo of him and Cas, leaving the pool building together after their mutual orgasms earlier.

Dean shudders.

_Jesus fucking Christ._

“Hey—”

He spins around, gravel underfoot, half-expecting some grinning maniac, but all he gets is Charlie.

“The fuck are you doing, dude?” she asks, gesturing at the raised saucepan. 

“Shit.” Dean lowers it, heart pounding in his chest.

“Come on, we’ve got all our stuff together. Let’s get the hell outta here.”

“Yeah,” Dean says on a shaky exhale. “Yeah. Let’s do that.” Waiting until Charlie has started back toward the hotel, he turns around to pluck the photo out of the frame and shoves it into the rear pocket of his jeans.

  
  


*** 

Back inside, everyone is packed, standing by their bags and suitcases. 

Dean eyes all of their stuff, focus darting between their personal things, the flashlights, the cooler. “Can we manage all this shit in one trip?”

“Sure as hell gonna try,” Benny mutters in his ‘I-told-y’all-so’ voice. “‘Cause I ain’t exactly eager to step foot back in here.”

Slinging their duffels over their shoulders, Cas and Dean take the cooler again, and the others barely manage everything else between them. 

A couple of toilet rolls get left behind.

Charlie, holding a flashlight, leads the way to the front door. “And so, we bid this place a fond farewell,” she says as she descends the porch steps. 

Dean feels something like hope expanding in his chest. Everything’s gonna be okay, right? Sure, he admitted that he and Cas committed murder, but at least they’re not gonna be victims themselves. 

Hopefully their friends will understand why they did what they did. Dean will _make_ them understand. Make them see that there’s no point in going to the cops. Or whatever Charlie’s thinking of.

 _Shit._

Dean really fucked up, didn’t he?

A shadowed glance at Cas’ face as they carry the cooler tells Dean that yes, yes he did fuck up. 

The five of them hurry across the lot. Walking around the Jeep to the rear, Charlie halts at the tailgate. She sets down her armfuls of stuff. 

She goes to open it, but it doesn’t budge. 

“Here,” Benny says, lowering his bags. “Let me try.”

No dice. The tailgate is locked. Dropping his end of the cooler, Dean tries the nearest door. Locked. 

Fuck. 

“We could smash a window?” Charlie offers, voice high and wobbly. 

“It’s a rental,” Garth responds.

“I think it’s a little late for caring about that,” Cas mutters, releasing his grip on the cooler. He hitches the strap of his slipping bag up his shoulder. 

“Let’s not panic,” Benny tries, soothing, but like fuck is Dean listening. He yanks off his overshirt, wrapping it around his forearm. He plucks the flashlight out of Charlie's hand and, before anyone has the opportunity to protest, he uses it to smash through the driver’s side window.

It makes a hell of a noise in the still of the night, but Dean reaches in with his bound arm and unlocks the door. “Problem solved,” he mutters.

Sweeping the glass off the seat, he climbs in. He pulls the seat lever and pushes against the footwell to give himself room to work underneath the steering wheel. “I need some light over here.”

Cas steps up, and Dean hands him the flashlight he used to break the window. “Thanks, Cas.”

Cas clicks it on, aiming the initially unsteady beam where Dean directs.

Dean shoves a hand deep into his front pocket, retrieving the multi-tool, and selects the medium screwdriver to remove the couple of screws holding the steering column in place. 

“Shit,” someone — sounds like Garth — mutters from outside. 

“What?” Dean asks Cas, dropping the screws into his palm and pulling the access panels free. “What’s going on?”

He has visions of a Jason-style massacre going on outside the car, whilst he carries on, oblivious.

The beam jerks upward, and, alarmed, Dean turns to look. Cas and the others are busy staring down at the tires. 

Irritation flares in his chest. “What is it?”

Cas looks up at him. “The tires have been slashed.”

Shit. 

“All of them?”

On the other side of the car, and staring at him stony-faced through the passenger window, Charlie nods. 

Dammit. It’s not the end of the world, but it does make things _significantly_ more difficult. They just need to get down to the bottom of the mountain. If the car can get them that far, they’ll be safe. “Don’t think you’re gonna get your deposit back, Garth,” Dean quips, then adds, “C’mon, Cas. Plans haven’t changed. Gimme the light.”

Dean turns his attention back to the roil of electrical wires. 

“We can still leave?” Benny asks from behind Cas. 

“Eh, I can get it to run,” Dean answers, mentally checking off the three bundles of wires. First one — lights, cruise control, and other indicators — second one — wipers, seat warmers — “As long as they haven’t—” third one — battery, ignition, and starter… It’s missing, crudely cut, copper exposed, “—removed the ignition leads.”

_FUCK._

Yeahhhh, they ain’t going anywhere.

  
  


***

  
  


The five of them standing by the car, Benny passes around a bottle of whiskey. Dean ties the arms of his overshirt around his waist.

“What now?” Garth asks. 

“It looks as though we’re stuck here for the night,” Cas answers, handing off the whiskey to Dean.

“And there’s absolutely no way we can drive the car outta here, Dean?” Charlie tries.

“Nope.” Dean pops the p as he lets the whiskey burn the back of his throat. “Coulda maybe done it on the four slashed tires — wouldn’t have had much traction, and the car would be absolutely fucked within five minutes — but with the ignition leads missing? Nah. No chance.”

Benny lowers his head. He lets out a loud sigh.

“Fun and games,” Charlie mutters, crouching to sit atop the cooler. “Well, I’m not going back in _there_.”

“Yeah, no way. Me neither.” Dean is one hundred percent in agreement. 

“So, what are we gonna do then?” Benny asks. “Sleep in the car? We’ll be sittin’ ducks.” 

“Nobody is eager to go back inside that hotel tonight,” Cas says, which is a fucking understatement. “So why don’t we try to find a hidden spot in the woods? We can camp out until morning and then trek back down the mountain in daylight.”

It’s their only option, really. Dean doesn’t like their chances of finding their way back to civilization in the dark. 

“Alright,” Benny agrees. “We can throw everythin’ in the car and just take our sleepin’ bags. And whatever else we’ll need for the night. Toothbrushes, the water…”

“Okay,” Charlie says. “Let’s do it.”

Spreading out behind the car, they open their luggage, taking out the stuff they’re likely to need. Dean watches closely as Garth makes sure to grab the booze. ‘Cause right now, that seems like _the_ single most important thing.

“All done?” Charlie asks. She climbs into the car and kneels on the back seat. Everyone passes their bags to Charlie, and she stows them in the rear. The cooler is the last thing to go in. “That it?”

Dean glances around. “Yeah.”

Holding a roll of toilet paper when she climbs from the car, Charlie slams the door shut with a solid thud.

They gather up their things, then trudge past the side of the car. “Where to?” Garth asks, holding a flashlight. 

“Maybe we should kill the light till we’re under cover of the trees?” Dean suggests, reaching out and clicking it off in Garth’s hand. “Don’t want to give our position away.”

“This was your idea, Cas,” Benny says. “Why don’t you lead the way?”

“Alright.” Cas steps up and takes the flashlight from Garth. He keeps it off as he starts walking down the driveway, away from both the inn and the thickest part of the forest. 

“Just in case anyone’s watching,” he explains quietly, “we’ll make it look like we’re actually leaving.”

_Good idea._

Dean turns around. As he walks backward, he gazes at the inn. With the moon out of sight behind it, the building is masked in black shadow. Someone might be watching; from the porch, from the doorway, from a window, from _anywhere_. But he only sees darkness. 

Facing forward again, Dean and the others follow Cas down the sloped driveway, gravity shortening their strides. Dean’s legs tremble, but that could be fear rather than the exertion of attempting to control his descent.

“Are we going all the way back to the road?” Garth asks after a few minutes.

Cas looks back. They all do. The inn is out of sight now. Dean can see nothing except the dim lane of the driveway rising behind them, a few patches of sky through the treetops, and the dark woods on both sides.

“This is good enough,” Cas says. He steps to the right, off the driveway, and into the darkness. His shoes crunch dead leaves and twigs on the forest floor. He ducks under a low branch. Charlie goes after him, followed by Garth. Dean casts a final glance up the deserted lane, sees nobody, and follows Benny into the trees.

Ahead, he glimpses a flashlight beam. It carves out a bright tunnel through the darkness to the right, then slides aside and disappears. 

They trudge along in single file, traversing the hillside, Cas leading them around brambles, boulders, and massive trunks that loom in their way. Nobody speaks. Dean stays close to the gray smudge of Benny’s back. 

In the thickness of the trees, there’s no breeze. It’s damn near as suffocatingly hot out here as it was back at the inn; the air heavy and sweet. 

Ugh.

He’s gross all over again, sweat dribbling down his sides and chest. 

Theoretically, he should feel safer out here, surrounded by trees. The chances of them being found in this wilderness are remote.

And yet.

Someone _has_ found them. Someone linked to Dean’s past in some way. 

_It’s your fault._

Yeah. Yeah, it probably is. 

Dean pushes that shit away, locks it down. He can feel sorry for himself tomorrow. When he’s out of this fuckin’ mess and in a safe motel. 

_Wrapped up in Cas._

Dean abruptly realizes that they’re walking uphill. “Hey!” he calls in a loud whisper. “What the fuck are we doing?”

At the front of the line, Cas halts. Dean approaches, stepping around his friends and over bits of branch and rocks to get to him. And if that ain’t a metaphor for their entire relationship, then Dean doesn’t know what is. “We’re going uphill,” he whispers.

“Yes,” Cas agrees. “I know. Have you ever tried sleeping on a slope?”

_Yeah, and you know that Cas, you asshole._

“What I mean—” _you dick,_ “—is that we’re heading back toward the hotel.”

“Where the ground is level. We’ll stay in the trees. As long as we’re quiet and don’t use our lights, we should be fine.”

“I don’t want to get any closer to the hotel, Cas.”

“Oooh, lover’s tiff,” Charlie interjects, a little too gleefully. 

Dean gives her the finger whilst Cas gives _him_ a long-suffering glare. “We’re almost to the top of the hill. Just a little farther, and then we’ll find somewhere to stay for the night.”

Without waiting for approval or more objections, Cas turns away and resumes his trek up the slope.

Shrugging, Garth and Charlie follow. Benny shakes his head.

“We should be going the other way,” Dean mutters.

“I knew this would turn into a goddamn camping trip,” Benny gripes and starts after the others. 

“We keep this up, we might as well sleep on the front fucking lawn!” Dean calls after Cas in a harsh whisper-yell, but he gets no response. 

With a sigh, Dean trudges after his friends.

After another few sweaty minutes, the group comes to a halt.

“Here?” Charlie asks. 

Dean looks around. They’re in a small clearing surrounded by a wall of trees and low bushes. There appears to be barely enough room for the sleeping bags. They’re gonna have to sleep practically on top of one another.

Dean’s eyes find Cas. He’s smiling in Dean’s direction, his lips still bitten-pink from their lust-fueled kiss earlier. 

_Yeah, yeah. Smug dick._

Peering into the darkness all around them, he can see no trace of the inn.

“It’s alright, I suppose,” Dean admits reluctantly. 

“Yeah. It’s about as safe as we’re gonna get,” Benny agrees. 

In silence, they set down their things. They open their sleeping bags and spend a while arranging them. Three fit side by side. Two fit crosswise.

Garth’s bag is in the middle between Charlie’s and Benny’s. He drops down on it and crosses his legs. “This isn’t so bad. We’ve got whiskey; all we need is the Cheetos.”

“Feel free to go back for them,” Dean tells him. “We’re probably only five feet away from the car.”

He gets a _look_ for that from Cas.

“Did _anybody_ bring food?” Charlie asks.

“We should’ve,” Benny mutters.

“But we didn’t,” Cas adds. “We’ll be fine until morning.”

“Speak for yourself, Cas,” Dean says. “All this adrenaline and terror is making me hungry.” He pats his stomach. 

Garth’s jaw cracks on a yawn. “I’m actually pretty tired.”

“Maybe we should brush our teeth and try to get some sleep,” Benny suggests. 

“And take a leak,” Dean adds.

They gather their toothbrushes, paste, the big plastic water bottle, and the roll of toilet paper. 

“I don’t know about the rest of you,” Dean says. “But I’m going _that_ way.” He points back the way they came.

They creep into the trees. A short distance from the clearing, they crowd together in a circle to share the water while they brush their teeth. 

After that, they separate to relieve themselves in peace. Nobody goes too far, and as he begins peeing, Dean hears the others nearby; footsteps mashing forest debris, muttered cursing, splashing sounds.

Done, Dean zips up and makes his way back to the clearing. Cas and Garth are already there. As Dean puts his toothbrush away, Charlie reappears, grumbling about nettles. She sits down on her sleeping bag just as Benny emerges from the trees, sans shirt, which he’s carrying in his hand.

Garth thumps his own chest and points at Benny. “You, Tarzan.”

“Oh, shit, yeah.” Charlie grins. “Who was Jane again?”

Dean frowns. He has no idea what they’re talking about. 

Benny rolls his eyes. “Andrea Kormos.”

Dean is lost. 

And judging by the glazed look on Cas’ face, so is he.

“Err, guys?” Dean says. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Oh, yeah,” Charlie says, a little wistfully. “I forgot. You two didn’t show up, did you?”

Apparently not.

“Garth’s senior year play,” she explains. “He roped Benny in at the last minute to play Tarzan, ‘cause both the main guy and the understudy got food poisoning or something.”

There’s a lot to unpack there, but Dean’s gonna start with the obvious. He swings his attention to Benny. “You? Were Tarzan? Damn, why the fuck did I miss that?”

Benny casts a disapproving glance in Cas’ direction. “Ask him.”

Ah. 

“You guys were so wrapped up in each other,” Charlie says softly. “You have no idea how difficult it was to pry you apart, just to make you come up for air.” She sighs. “I guess knowing what we know now, it kinda makes a lot more sense.”

Well, shit. 

Because Dean truly is a pro at compartmentalization, he forgets sometimes just how isolated he and Cas became. Everything and everyone else ceased to exist, ‘cause they had each other.

“You’re still gonna tell us about that, by the way,” Benny reminds them, laying down on his sleeping bag. 

_If we survive the night._

Garth stretches out on his too. 

“Let’s all try and get some sleep, kiddies. The sooner we fall asleep, the sooner morning will come,” Charlie says, sinking down beside Garth. She rolls over and rests her face on her crossed arms.

“We gonna set up some kind of watching schedule?” Dean asks, easing down onto his sleeping bag next to Cas’. Its slick fabric is cool through his t-shirt. He folds his hands under his head. The branches overhead are motionless. Beyond them, he can see pieces of sky and a few dots of starlight. 

“I’ll take first watch,” Benny says. “I’m not all that tired anyways.”

Dean is. After the repeated boosts of adrenaline this evening, he’s crashing and crashing _hard_. 

Dean moves onto his side. Behind him, he feels the ghost of Cas’ breath. It makes him shudder and wiggle back, seeking the comfort of Cas tucked up against him. 

“Same,” Charlie says. “I’ll stay up with Benny.”

Dean hears owls hooting, insects chittering, furtive scurrying, papery rustling sounds, and the occasional soft thump that could either be pinecones falling or a maniac with a machete cutting off heads. 

_Place yer bets._

“Sleep,” Cas murmurs, curling himself around Dean. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Dean wants to make him cross his heart and hope to die, but that second part is a little too sharp right now. Instead, Dean lets himself get enveloped in Cas’ arms and scent, lets himself believe Cas.

_It’s all gonna be okay._

Cas slings an arm over Dean’s waist, bracketing him. He rolls his hips against Dean’s ass. “Just getting comfortable,” he murmurs, and Dean can hear the smile in his tone. 

“You’re a dick, you know that?” Dean tells him, but he’s smiling too. 

Dean closes his eyes, and for a while, he sleeps, safe. It’s a dreamless sleep, boneless exhaustion sinking in and pulling him under. 

  
  


***

When he wakes up, it's still dark, and Cas and Benny are missing.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is 50% smut, 25% suspicious behaviour, 15% foreshadowing, 10% fluff ;)

**Fourteen years ago, right after the could-be-a date and _that_ kiss, UC Berkeley**

If Dean had expected Cas to be a gentle, candles-lit, soft-music, let's-make-love kinda guy, he would have been entirely wrong. (Also, pretty disappointed, especially after that hyper-masculine display of violence).

There’s nothing _gentle_ about the way Cas manhandles him home; the walk back to the dorm becoming the longest and most difficult of Dean’s life. Not just metaphorically — though, yeah, that too — but mostly ‘cause Cas stops them every few feet, shoving Dean up against the sides of buildings underneath flickering street lights to suck bruises into his neck.

For the first time in over a month, Dean feels free. The constant linger of fear has dissipated for now, thanks to Cas and his ability to throw a punch, and he’s left with a kind of euphoria, which may or may not be getting helped along by the sweet friction of their jean-clad erections and Cas’ hands on his ass, pulling him in closer.

He feels invincible, like nothing (and no-one) can touch him. He’s riding that fine, dichotomous line with Cas: Cas makes him feel safe, but Dean knows that he’s dangerous. Not in a serial killer kinda way, just in an appearances-can-be-deceiving kinda way. At first (and even second) glance, Cas looks sorta nerdy and bookish, but he fights like he’s been fucking up people’s shit his entire life. 

It’s super fucking hot, even as Dean knows how wrong it is; those crossed wires twisting tighter and tighter. 

They’re both hard and aching by the time they fall through their dorm door, panting like they’ve just run a marathon. 

Instantly, Cas backs Dean up against the closed door, his spine coming into contact with the emergency exit diagram, and the fierce, possessive look in Cas’ eyes makes his dick jerk in time with his whole-body shiver. Cas presses in impossibly close, pinning Dean’s hips with his own, holding Dean in place with the weight of his body whilst he focuses on drawing Dean’s heartbeat to the surface with his mouth. One hand fisted in Cas’ hair, the other reaching out to desperately clutch at Cas’ shirt, Dean whimpers.

“What do you want, Dean?” Cas demands darkly, teeth bared against Dean’s collarbone. 

“Fuck.” Dean can’t think beyond the way Cas feels against him, the strong line of his body molded to him in such a familiar, yet foreign way. 

He can feel Cas’ smile curving against his overheated skin. “That’s one option, yes.”

_Asshole._

But now that the idea is right there, it’s all he can think about. Not that he often stops thinking about it; he’d just assumed that their first time together would be an exchange of handjobs, especially as keyed up as they both are.

“Fuck me,” he says.

Cas makes a pained sound and instinctively rocks his hips forward. “Are you sure?”

It’s literally been Dean’s dream for months now. 

“Cas, fuck me.”

From there, it’s a romcom trail of clothes to the bed, pants tossed aside, socks landing in conspicuously humorous places, as they collapse naked together into the tiny width of Cas’ bed, not made for two six-foot-plus-men.

Underneath Cas, his palms on the curve of Cas’ ass as they rut together, the slip-slide of their bare cocks so good that he wants to cry, Dean grinds up as Cas thrusts down, sweat-and-precome-slick easing the way.

Dean’s slack-mouthed and mindless, nothing but a bundle of nerve endings and filthy-hot want. 

He can’t stop looking at Cas, at the naked shrine of him. Those broad shoulders, miles of flawless skin, dark hair fucked up from all the times Dean ran his hands through it on the way home.

He wishes he could say that he doesn’t stare at Cas’ dick, but he’s felt that thing pressed up against him every night and morning for a couple of weeks now. Like fuck he isn’t gonna look his fill, now that he’s actually allowed.

And _shit_ , but Cas is thick where it fucking counts. 

Which is everywhere, really (‘cause _goddamn_ those thighs, fingers, voice). 

His dick though? His dick is its own wonder of the world.

_The seven(th) and a half wonder of the world._

Cas is all over him, biting, licking, sucking, mauling bruises into Dean’s skin. It’s hot, so hot, the possessive manhandling, the determined way he marks Dean up as his, the little overwhelmed thrusts of his hips, devastated and desperate in the exact same way Dean is. 

“You’re perfect,” Cas tells him between one kiss and the next, words buried in the skin over Dean’s heart. 

Dean can’t contain his choked-off whimper at the vehemence in Cas’ voice, the insistence that Dean’s worth a damn.

_Goddamn, Cas._

Pushing up on his forearm, Cas reaches across Dean to rummage around in his nightstand drawer, hopefully for fuck-me supplies, rather than a moving haiku he’s written about Dean’s soul or something equally tear-jerking-but-not-conducive-to-Dean-coming. 

To hurry things along, Dean takes advantage of the position to bite Cas’ nipple with his wet, panting mouth.

It’s literally right there. It would be rude not to.

Cas growls, hips bucking into Dean’s, their dicks sliding bare, a skid-shudder of burning-hot, steel-hard flesh, and Dean throws his head back into the pillow, arching off the bed to get even closer.

“Cas," he gasps, beyond turned on. "C'mon.”

It’s been months, but Dean can’t wait seconds.

Condom _s_ — (plural; _ambitious_ ) — and lube in hand, Cas rises above Dean, on his knees. Dean licks his dry lips, completely spun out on this, on _them_ , the sight and smell of them together, the way they just _fit_ together.

Scattering the condoms like wedding night confetti, Cas clicks the near-full lube bottle open. Dean watches him, lust-drunk but alcohol-sober. He’d blush at the look Cas gives him, if all of his blood hadn’t already migrated to his dick.

Knocking Dean’s thighs wide, then shoving them wider still with the sprawl of his knees, Cas presses a slippery fingertip to the tight, dry furl of Dean’s hole. 

Dean’s heart pounds. His cock throbs.

Above him, bottom lip pulled between the pearly white of his teeth as he stares down at the way Dean spreads too easily, Cas is everything Dean dreamed about and more. His chest is pink, flushed from the neck down, eyes dark and laser-focused, so goddamned beautiful that it makes Dean’s heart (and dick) ache.

Right as Cas leans forward to crush the breath from Dean’s lungs, and to capture Dean’s mouth in a kiss, he pushes his slick finger inside Dean. His fight-scarred first knuckle catches on Dean’s rim, and Dean whines into Cas’ mouth at both the intrusion and the reminder of Cas' fierce protectiveness.

Fuck. Nobody has ever done anything like that for Dean. Ever. 

It’s not like he can’t look after himself — though sometimes he does doubt it, what with his general dumbassery — but fuck, with Cas around, he’ll never have to throw another punch. 

Cas’ clever digit moves inside him just right, pushing deep, grazing Dean’s prostate, lighting him up, and Dean clings to him for dear life.

And dear death too, 'cause this is gonna be a petite mort to remember and wet dream about for the foreseeable future.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Cas.” He breaks their kiss on a breathless shudder-pant, already shivery and needy, ready to come. “You gotta fuck me.”

Bracing his weight on his forearm, Cas presses another finger in alongside the first, a smarting burn that blurs into pleasure when he starts fucking them in and out. He’s watching Dean’s face ever so closely, and the angle is cramped and awkward, but it’s by far the hottest thing Dean’s ever experienced. 

“Please,” he begs, voice breaking over the word, “Gonna come, wanna come when you’re inside me.”

Nothing about that sentence is a lie.

Cas’ dick is trailing slick across Dean’s hip, not the only evidence that he’s as turned on as Dean, but the most immediately obvious one. He presses a kiss to Dean’s mouth, one that’s all teeth and tongue, and leaves Dean tasting copper, before he pushes back up, kneeling, removing his fingers, and hauling Dean’s thighs into his lap. Dean’s not ashamed by how easily he’s maneuvered, how right it feels with his legs bracketed around Cas’ waist, tilting his hips up in invitation.

He refrains from touching his cock — no matter how much he really fucking _needs_ to — and Cas rips into the foil condom packet, rolling it down his own dick, rubber not quite meeting the dark curls of his pubic hair. 

_Jesus._

Bottle of lube in hand, Cas squirts a copious amount everywhere; all over his dick, the sheets, Dean’s thighs and ass. Then he’s gripping himself at the base and guiding the purple head of his cock to Dean’s not-really-prepped-enough-to-take-a-dick-of-this-magnitude hole.

Dean’s foot twitches against the small of Cas’ back, right above the swell of his ass, and his toes curl as Cas drives his weight forward, crown of his dick popping in against the resistance of Dean’s body. 

Fuck. Cas is _inside_ him.

_Don’t you dare come._

Fists clenched in the covers, Dean tosses his head back, biting his lip so hard that he’s gonna have the permanent indent of his incisors there. 

“Fuck.” Cas’ voice trembles over the word. His fingers fan out over Dean’s thighs, hot like burning and branding Dean for life.

More and more inches slide inside Dean, endless it feels like, as Cas works himself all the way in. They’re both sweating buckets by the time Cas’ body comes to rest against Dean’s, fully sheathed in him, but he’s in there, thick and long and filling Dean right up.

“Cas,” Dean groans, heel skid-slipping through sweat as he tries to urge him to move, do something, other than just savor the moment, ‘cause that’s all well and good, but Dean _really_ needs to come.

Cas’ eyes are closed, and when they flutter open, they’re obsidian, blue reduced to nothing but a fever dream, and Dean can see the wreckage of himself reflected back in the pitch-black shine of Cas’ pupils. 

Dean reaches up to Cas’ face, drags his fingertips over the day-end stubble. “Cas, I want you so bad. Please.”

That seems to do it, snap Cas out of it, and he catches Dean’s wrist, shoves it back into the pillow, braces his weight against it as he curves himself over Dean’s body. He draws back, thick length of his cock teasing, withdrawing several inches, leaving Dean nearly empty.

But not for long.

He shoves in, hard and fast. Drags back out and in again, until he’s fucking the moans loose from Dean’s throat, splitting Dean wide around the perfect shape of him, carving out a space inside Dean’s body that’s just for him.

Dean tries his best to meet him, thrust for thrust, to fuck up into the cradle of his hips, but he can’t get much leverage in this position, so he mostly just has to lie there and take it, let Cas do what he wants, and _fuck_ is it worth it. 

Especially when Cas starts talking dirty. That mouth ain’t just for kissing. 

“That’s it,” Cas murmurs, appreciation thick in his voice. “Dean, you’re so — fucking, _fuck_.” He hikes Dean’s slipping leg up, the tendons in Dean’s thigh protesting, but it all adds to the deliciousness. 

“You feel so good, Dean, so good,” he croons, mindless, gaze dropping between their bodies, where they’re joined, watching himself disappear into Dean’s body, fucking Dean so deep that Dean can damn near taste him at the back of his throat. “So beautiful, let me hear you, want to hear you, tell me how it feels with me inside you. _Fucking you_.”

Dean turns his head to the side, drooling into the pillows, thighs beginning to cramp with the way they’re clamped around Cas so tightly, the jut of Cas’ hipbone sharp against his reddening flesh.

“Tell me,” Cas commands darkly, and Dean’s having trouble focusing when Cas’ pelvis is moving in that dirty-hot grind, the head of his dick shoved right up against Dean’s prostate in sweet agony.

“Please,” Dean whimpers, not entirely sure what he’s begging for, but knowing that he wants it wholeheartedly. 

“I want to hear you. _Tell me_.”

Dean’s whole body trembles, his cock slapping against the flat plane of his stomach with every increasingly harsh thrust of Cas’ hips, sloppy wet, precome pooling in his belly button. He’s an incoherent mess, practically sobbing, begging Cas, the syllables hammered apart by the rhythm of Cas’ thrusts. “Puh—lease, god— fuck— you feel am—az—ing. Gon—na—”

He comes (apart), right when Cas gets a hand around him, jerks him off at the same pace he’s fucking him, with deep drives of his hips, both of them sweating, and sticky, eyes all for each other.

Dean’s lips form words, but he doesn’t know whether any sound comes out or not, ‘cause all he can hear in his ears is the hummingbird flutter of his pulse, as he shoots his liquefied spine out of his dick. 

When Cas comes, it’s with a mangled approximation of Dean’s name forcing its way past his plush lips, and Dean shudders all over again, shattered into a million pieces by the way his name tears itself from Cas’ soul and embeds itself right back into his skin, and Cas collapses against him, bodies and heartbeats pressed together.

_Holy fucking fuck._

  
  


***

This time when Dean wakes up, it's to Cas peppering kisses behind his ear, under his hairline, Cas’ fingers sloppy-wet and crooking deep inside the sore stretch of his ass. Their bodies are practically fused together, Cas’ chest molded to Dean’s back, so close that their breaths are in-sync.

He trembles in Cas’ hold, already half-hard and entirely wanting. 

"Dean," Cas rumbles between one kiss and the next, head of his steel-hard cock rubbing slick over the back of Dean’s thigh. "I want…" He trails off, a murmured half-sentence against Dean’s jaw, letting Dean fill in the blank, but he already knows how and what and _who_ he wants to fill it.

"Yeah," Dean croaks, heart pounding against the cage of his ribs. "Do it."

It's not just permission for right now, but for the rest of their lives.

Cas makes a wounded sound in the back of his throat and removes his fingers. 

Dean’s dick throbs, anticipation winding through the sleepiness. 

Pressing himself along Dean’s spine, Cas slides up inside him, hot and hard and bare, shoving himself into the place where Dean is still aching, a firm hand on Dean's abdomen, dragging him back onto his cock, until they come together with an audible slap of skin on skin.

It hurts, it hurts so fucking good.

Dean moans, turned on, in a dream-like state. He reaches back to fist a hand in the thick strands of Cas' hair, dragging him in for a kiss that is mostly the two of them gasping into each other's mouths as Cas fucks him; little, rough jabs of his hips that have Dean crying out and his calf muscles cramping. 

"Dean, you feel so good," Cas pants, hot and humid against Dean’s mouth. "I’m already addicted to the way you feel around me."

“Cas,” he manages in return, struggling to breathe around the sensation of Cas’ cock dragging against his tender insides. Rocking his hips in a barely-there grind, Cas slows, savoring the moment, ignoring that sharp edge of desperation in favor of driving Dean crazy with inchless thrusts.

 _Fuck._

Dean doesn’t have the words to describe how fucking amazing this is; better than anything he could’ve ever dreamed up, anything he could’ve imagined in his wildest fantasies.

Cas is real and alive, and inside Dean, barely nudging in and out like he can’t bear to leave, can’t be outside of Dean for even a split second. It’s the most intimate, dirty thing he’s ever experienced.

"Please, Cas. Gonna make me come. Touch me."

Cas lets out a strangled moan that gutters off into a growl. He moves his hand from Dean’s abdomen to in front of his mouth, with the bitten-off command, “Lick.”

Dean does as he’s told, licking a long stripe over the salty skin, tempted to really make a production of it, to suck Cas’ fingers between his lips, but he doesn’t, not wanting to ruin his chances of coming in the next thirty seconds. Satisfied, Cas grunts and reaches down to stroke Dean’s cock feather-light from base to tip, smearing his thumb through the blurt of precome at the slit.

It’s nothing more than a tease, a cruel one at that, and Dean shifts his hips, trying to fuck up into Cas’ loose-fingered grip. “Please.”

Finally, fucking _finally_ , Cas wraps his hand around Dean’s dick properly, smooth — and now mostly dry — palm closing around the sensitive flesh, right as he begins fucking Dean with short, jerky, animalistic thrusts that have Dean's muscles winding themselves into knots. He nails Dean on a particularly brutal one, driving deep, and Dean's whole body clenches, making them both moan. 

Cas is good at this, like _really good_ , and Dean doesn't know whether it's 'cause their intense-as-fuck connection is one in seven billion or whether Cas is genuinely just the best fuck of Dean's life. 

_A little of column A, a little of column B._

Either way, Dean’s thankful they decided to get their shit together, ‘cause this? This is _perfection_.

"Gonna come, Cas," he warns on a sweetheart sigh, a scant few seconds before he actually does, and then that’s it, Dean’s spilling over Cas’ fist again, messy and sticky, early-morning orgasm pulled from low in his gut, a sweet ache that makes Dean gasp and shake. 

Cas comes seconds later, holding Dean in place as he grinds himself in deeper, filling Dean up with the white-hot pulse of his come. 

_Fuck._

Dropping his sweaty forehead to Dean’s shoulder, breath hot and heavy as he comes down, Cas pants, “Shouldn’t have done that.”

Dean’s heart sinks. 

He’s regretting it already? Jesus fuck, Dean’s heard of jerk-off regret, even sex regret, but usually people are polite enough to at least wait until they’re doing the walk of shame or alone in the shower to express it.

He can feel his soul curling in on itself, the elation he felt last night and ten seconds ago already a distant memory. Inwardly, he wishes he could be anywhere rather than here, even while he laments the loss of Cas’ softening cock as it slips from his body, followed by an... _interesting_ sensation of come trickling down the seam of his balls. 

“Don’t,” Cas murmurs, kissing Dean’s shoulder blade. “Don’t spiral. I simply meant that I should’ve used protection. I have absolutely no regrets about the rest of it.”

 _Oh._

Dean licks his dry lips. “I’m, uhhh… clean. I’ve never done that with anybody else before. Dude or chick.”

_Unprotected strap-ons don’t count, right?_

Cas goes deathly still behind him. His voice is strained, cracked and bleeding around the edges when he asks, “What time do we have to be at Charlie and Garth’s?”

Something in Dean’s stomach flips over. “Uhh, nine.”

Cas mouths at a painful spot on Dean’s neck — a mark he left there last night. “Good, then we’ve got time to go again.”

_Fuckin’ A._

  
  


***

Together, they walk across campus to Charlie and Garth’s place for the final time in their sophomore year. They don’t hold hands, ‘cause Dean’s not a chick, but they do keep super close together, all up in each other’s personal space, and Dean can’t help but feel a little smug about that blond prick from last night who looked at Cas like he hung the moon.

Dean’s a little more bow-legged than usual and Cas is loose-boned and casual. Exams are over, the creeper got his ass beat, and Dean’s had three orgasms in eight hours. Things are good. Better than they’ve been in a long time. 

When the door swings open, Charlie takes one look at the two of them and her face breaks out into a huge grin. “Good night?”

“We went to a party,” Cas tells her, straight-faced and giving nothing away, ‘cause he’s a gentleman, _obviously_. 

Dean suffers from no such affliction, so, behind Cas as he walks in, Dean flashes her the universal gesture for dicks in holes (index finger through the circled thumb and forefinger of the other hand).

Charlie snorts.

There are boxes of stuff everywhere, labelled things like ‘kitchen shit’ and ‘BIOHAZARD: Garth’s clothes, do NOT open’.

They skirt around the piles. This time, they need no prompting to sit next to each other on the couch. Dean (gingerly) sits as close as he can without physically crawling into Cas’ lap. 

"Well, you two look thoroughly debauched," Charlie tells them, sitting down on the coffee table, looking back and forth between their expressions. “I just hope you were safe.”

_Oops._

Saving them from having ‘the talk’ with Charlie, Garth mercifully appears, stumbling in from his bedroom. He looks a mess with bags under his eyes, and bite marks all over his neck, like he’s been attacked by an overzealous leech.

Not that Dean has the high ground or anything, ‘cause he’s pretty sure there’s a hickey sucked into the skin just below his ear.

_Thanks, Cas._

Though, he’s actually kinda (definitely, 100%) into it. 

“We weren’t the only ones who had a good night, eh?” Dean grins, twisting in his seat to look at Garth over the back of the couch. 

Garth smiles tiredly, though he does find enough energy to wiggle his eyebrows ridiculously. “Let’s just say, I had some sleep to catch up on.”

When Dean faces Charlie again, she looks less than impressed. Garth throws himself down next to Dean, the already sorry cushions sinking lower.

“Oh, man!” Dean is only half-pretending when he gags. “You reek like a damn whorehouse, go shower!”

Garth sniffs the air. His nose wrinkles. “That’s me?”

“Dude, yes!”

He pushes up off the couch and, walking backward, announces in a pretty awful Arnie impersonation, “I’ll be back.”

“Ugh.” Charlie groans, waiting until the bathroom door closes behind him, before adding, “His fucking booty call came around in the early hours.” There’s a knock at the door, which is ignored, ‘cause it’s Benny’s knock. “Let me tell you, if he ever asks you if you want to see his Mr. Fizzles, do _not_ say yes. I’m traumatized.”

“Traumatized by what?” Benny asks, coming straight in as usual. Except this time, there’s no pizza, ‘cause it’s still early, but he _is_ carrying a box of a dozen donuts, which perks Dean up no end.

That means two each and if Dean’s lucky he’ll get one of the extras at the end. 

“Garth and his booty call. Glad she snuck out straight afterward, ‘cause I’m not sure I would’ve been able to look her in the eye.” Charlie pulls a ‘yeuch’ face.

Benny eyes the space next to Dean, the one Garth just vacated. His gaze slides over Dean and then Cas, before an apparent decision is made. He sits down next to Dean. “You ever met her at all?” He opens the box of donuts in her direction, an invitation for her to take one.

“No,” Charlie mutters, leaning forward and half standing. She plucks out one with multi-colored sprinkles, retakes her seat.

Good. More maple frosted ones for Dean.

“But I have my suspicions,” she adds. Her eyes flick briefly to Cas, and her smile is apologetic. “Pretty sure it’s your friend, Meg.”

Cas appears unmoved by this information. “She did mention a ‘hot date’ she had after the party last night.”

The finger quotes are adorable as always. But not quite enough to halt Dean’s ‘ohjesusfuckthat’sgross’ shudder.

So Meg and Garth? That’s… fuckin’ weird. Meg is probably all whips and chains and dominatrix and Garth is… Garth?

_Jesus H Christ, it’s too early to be thinking about this shit._

Changing the subject and reminding Charlie that she wanted to organize this shit at ass o’clock in the morning on their moving out day; one last meeting before they all part ways for the summer, Dean says, “You got any coffee for us? We’ll need enough to kill off the brain cells used to process that information.”

Chewing on her donut, Charlie nods. She rises and goes off to the kitchen, a faraway look in her eyes, like she’s imagining something pretty unfortunate.

_Ugh. Nope. Don’t think about it._

They watch her go, and Benny asks, “How’re you doin’, Dean?” as he slides the box of donuts onto the coffee table. 

It’s kind of a loaded question, but for once, Dean doesn’t have to paste on a forced smile. “I’m good.”

“Yeah?” Benny seems pleased to hear it, but then his expression drops a little when he catches sight of Cas’ palm casually resting on Dean’s thigh. “You were both at that party last night?”

“Yep,” Dean confirms, reaching into the donut box for a maple frosted one.

“I heard that there was a fight there?” Benny says, trying for casual, though Dean can tell the question is anything but. 

“Probably a few fights,” Dean answers, licking at his lips, maintaining eye-glaze-contact with the donut. “Was kind of a rowdy party at times. You know how humanities students can be. Just getting their practice in for when they’ve gotta fight over jobs.”

Next to him, Cas narrows his eyes. Dean takes a triumphant bite of his donut, pleased with himself.

As he chews, he tries to not think about Cas and the way he laid right into Dean’s stalker, ‘cause _goddamn_ , he really doesn’t need a boner to contend with at the moment. Instead, he nudges Cas in the ribs, says, “You’d better get a donut before I eat them all.”

‘Cause he totally will. 

Red-hot glare leaving the side of Dean’s face, Cas reaches into the box, coming back with a Bavarian Crème in hand. 

“A man of taste and sophistication, I see,” Dean grins, but the smile falls right off his face when Cas takes a bite, cream bursting and getting everywhere, all over his mouth and chin.

_Oh, you fucker, Cas._

“I heard there was one in particular that was kinda bad.” Benny’s still talking, and Dean really couldn’t give less of a fuck, not with the way Cas licks the cream from the corner of his mouth. “Dude ended up in hospital needing stitches.”

“That’s great, Benny,” Dean murmurs, distracted. Cas is a fucking tease of epic proportions and it’s only just dawning on Dean now that all of that ‘innocent’ walking-around-with-his-shirt-off shit was just the opposite.

Dean’s smart, but sometimes he can be a bit slow. 

“You’re an asshole,” Dean tells him, and Cas’ slow-eyed blink is full of innocence, but now Dean’s seen behind the curtain and will never allow himself to be fooled by that shit again. 

He still can’t tear his eyes away though, ‘cause this is a masterpiece. ‘Super-hot dude eating creamy donut’ should be on display in an art gallery somewhere. 

Unfortunately — or fortunately, depending on whether you’re Dean or not — Charlie chooses that moment to reappear with some coffee. She nudges the donut box to the edge of the table with her knee and deposits a couple of mugs, before going back to get more. 

As she turns back to the kitchen, she catches sight of Cas, and no doubt, Dean’s lovestruck, ‘oh-my-god-I’m-gonna-jizz-in-my-pants’ face, and grins. “Cas, you got a little something—” She gestures to her own cheek. 

Cas is still leaning into his ‘I-have-no-idea-what-my-eating-a-creamy-donut-does-to-my-perpetually-horny-roommate’ thing, so he acts all flustered, and wipes off his cheek.

Fuck. Dean wanted to lick it off.

“You got it,” Charlie says on a high laugh whilst Dean glares daggers at her.

Dean’s friends are the _worst_.

  
  


***

“It’s literally _always_ the boyfriend,” Charlie yells at the screen, “you dumbass!” Some of her donut sprinkles fall to the carpet. She gets kinda wound up about this stuff. Can’t stand it when the chicks in these movies are always so unconcerned about what she perceives to be big red flags.

“Not always,” Cas corrects, sipping at his second cup of coffee. “Sometimes — like in this movie — it’s the ex. Conveniently coming back after years to exact vengeance.”

Dean grins over the rim of his own mug. “Yeah, Charlie. Get your shit right.”

Charlie eyes them both. “But who in their right mind would hire their ex to do some repair work on her and her husband’s house, and then be shocked and dismayed when it all goes sideways?”

On that aspect, they agree. 

“Only an idiot,” Garth answers, distracted.

“I wonder how many movies it does turn out to be the boyfriend,” Benny muses, speaking for the first time since Cas’ porno scene with the donut. “Billy Loomis in Scream, J.D. in Heathers, David McCall in Fear, Axel in My Bloody Valentine—”

“—Ah, but that’s not quite as straightforward,” Dean interjects, “‘cause that was a love triangle, between Axel, Sarah, and T.J. He was kinda-sorta her ex by the end too.”

“Now you’re just splittin’ hairs.”

“Yeah, but if you’re claiming something as a trope, then you _have_ to split hairs. It’s the difference between an ex-boyfriend and a boyfriend being the murdering psychopath. This shit matters, dude.”

“Especially to a horror aficionado,” Garth intones, looking up from his phone for the first time in at least an hour. Showered and mostly clean, he’s wearing the only clothes he hadn’t packed — a pair of slacks and a gray cardigan thingy that make him look like an English aristocrat.

“Yeah, Benny,” Dean taunts good-naturedly. “You got schooled, man.”

A smile quirks his lips. “Guess I did.”

Cas slides a burning hot palm really high onto Dean’s thigh, fingers brushing the inseam of his jeans, and Dean makes a squeaking noise, coffee nearly sloshing over the edge of the mug. He goes to side-eye Cas, but that intense, blue-eyed stare is all for the situation unfolding on the TV screen. 

Dean’s seen Straw Dogs a million times, so he settles for watching Cas watch it for the first time.

At least until Charlie asks, “So, what are you guys gonna do over the summer?”

Dean hasn’t really thought that far ahead. His family moves around a lot, so he can meet up with them anywhere, no pressure. But he hasn’t exactly been looking forward to it. His dad’s a pretty strict authoritarian who enjoys reminding Dean that he’s disappointed in Dean’s decision to pursue college. 

Yeah, maybe in another life Dean would’ve been happy to follow his dad’s footsteps into the family business, but in this one? Dean wants an education, wants his genius little brother to have one too. 

The only reason he’d be going anywhere near his family this summer is purely for Sam.

“Berkeley has a scheme where I can move into transition housing over the summer,” Cas says casually.

Dean knows that Cas isn’t close to his family, like, at all, so he’s not surprised to hear that he’s planning on staying here. 

They really did pick a hell of a time to finally get their shit together; right before they’re not gonna see each other for a couple of months.

_Unless…?_

“Though, I may just search for a new place off-campus and see if I can get a year-long rental. It’ll save the hassle of having to keep moving,” Cas adds, picking at the icing on his second donut. 

Dean’s mind whites out. Cas is going to find his own place? But what about their dorm? What about _them_?

Though, they _are_ about to be juniors. It’s probably time that they gave up their space in the on-campus housing to those who need it more. Plus, moving out of dorms means moving away from the creeper, and that can only be a good thing. 

And Sam could visit. No restrictions whatever. 

As for him and Cas, they could be together. Just the two of them.

Dean’s sold.

Benny’s just telling Cas, “—there’s a great realtor on Fulton Street who specializes in student housing—” when Dean interrupts.

“I’ll stay too,” Dean says instantly. “I mean, it’s not like I had anything else to do. And that means we could get a place together, y’know, split the cost.” Just to really cement this as the best idea in history, Dean tacks on, “I mean, we already know that we like each other as, uhh, roommates, so why take the risk of advertising for another roommate when you’ve got one right here?”

“Why indeed?” Cas’ smile is soft and warm and all for him. “Sounds like a great idea.”

  
  


***

Turns out that finding a house or apartment close to campus for a non-exorbitant price ain’t as easy as Dean initially thought.

Neither of them are keen on sharing with anyone else, and in all honesty, Dean wants to be able to shower without worrying about a creepy-ass roommate or how much noise he makes when Cas blows him.

Which is _a lot_.

A couple of days into the summer break, and barely one day before they need to vacate their dorm, they find a place. North of the college, it’s a one-bedroom apartment with twin beds, a student-sized kitchen, and utilities included for $1,700 a month. 

It’s more than Dean had been wanting to pay — more than he can afford, scholarship and all — but Cas insists on picking up the slack. He’s got money saved. A severance package from his family, he calls it. 

They move in the same day.

  
  


***

The very first thing they do in their new home is push their beds together. 

***

On a beautiful day in June, they rent a car and drive down to Lands End beach. They hike along the paved, winding trail for what seems like days, Dean complaining the whole way about how hot it is, until they end up in a cove called Mile Rock. The sand of the beach is a rich golden color and the glassy, blue-green water laps in gently; no big combers. There’s a light, warm summer breeze, taking away the worst of the California heat. From here, they can see the Golden Gate Bridge, and Cas kisses him on the temple, says, “I thought you might like to see a feat of engineering from the comfort of the sand and sea.”

It’s honestly the most romantic thing anyone's ever done for him, and Dean’s eyes burn with tears, swallowing hard around the lump in his throat.

There are large rocks everywhere, so Dean yanks Cas behind one, out of view of the few families and dog-walkers scattered about. 

On his knees, fingers clumsy and adrenaline pumping, Dean yanks Cas’ jeans and boxer-briefs down around his thighs and sucks him down to the back of his throat. Cas growls out a string of obscenities, fucks into the willing wetness of Dean's mouth a handful of times before he's coming helplessly, a loud sob torn from his throat. 

It's hot, so fucking hot, and Dean's pulling his own cock out of his boxers and jerking himself off so fast that he ends up coming all over his hand and the sand less than a minute later.

  
  


***

Despite Dean’s best intentions regarding his little brother, he keeps pushing the impending visit back. He and Cas are having the best time, and he wants to preserve this moment for as long as possible. 

It’s fine; there’s plenty of time for Sam to come stay.

  
  


***

They visit the Art Museum and Pacific Film Archive on a Tuesday. There aren’t quite as many horror movies archived as Dean had been hoping, but the way Cas stares up at some silk-screen prints, all awe-struck and inspired, well, it has Dean’s heart beating just that little bit faster. 

  
  


***

The missed calls from his brother pile up, but Dean just texts back, telling him to go have fun with friends instead of Dean. What kind of sixteen-year-old wants to hang out with their older brother and his boyfriend anyways?

Yeah, that’s right. Boyfriend. 

Cas makes it official late one night after a particularly inspiring sex session where he’d rimmed Dean until he was damn near sobbing into their pillows, then fucked him until he actually was.

It’s not a marriage proposal, but it might as well be. ‘Cause Dean goes all weak-kneed and girl-eyed gushy.

_Boyfriends._

Sounds good.

***

On a scorching hot day in July, they’re supposed to be going to catch a showing of A Scanner Darkly in the theater, but the rented car craps out on them.

Instead of calling the rental place, Cas nudges Dean into the driver’s seat with the instruction, “Let’s see you put those engineering skills to good use.”

Dean _could_ fix the car. But he’s not doing somebody else’s job for them, so, just to show off to his boyfriend (boyfriend!), he hotwires it.

“Show me how to do that,” Cas demands, pride and admiration seeping in around the edges of the steel in his tone.

So Dean does. 

  
  


***

Sam finally comes to see them in August. Dumped on Dean and Cas' doorstep by John, all Safe-Haven-law-like, Sam tells them with hopeful amber eyes that he's allowed to stay for a week and can they please visit the Lawrence Hall of Science?

Dean rolls his eyes and ruffles his brother’s unruly mop of hair, whilst Cas readily agrees. 

Sam likes Cas immediately, and it’s not like anything could really alter Dean’s feelings about Cas at this point, but it’s nice to have the little brother seal of approval. Though once Sam finds out Cas is pre-law, it's all law talk, all the goddamn time. 

Dean's the third wheel in _both_ of his relationships. How the fuck did that happen? 

Dean's not jealous, he's _not_ , but Cas is _his_. 

At the end of the week — which gets drawn out by three extra days, ‘cause John-fucking-Winchester — Dean’s not _happy_ to see his brother go, but he is a little relieved. 

He’s got Cas all to himself again for the remainder of the summer.

  
  


***

It’s stupid — especially considering how idyllic things have been — but Dean can't help the way his mind presses at the memory of Cas beating the shit outta the creeper for him, poking at it like a bruise, a wobbly tooth.

No one’s ever looked at him the way Cas looks at him. 

It makes him weak-kneed and hard-dicked.

So, when, a month or so before school is due to start again, Dean gets approached in a bar whilst Cas is in the bathroom, Dean pushes. Wants to see that vicious, possessive side in Cas again. ‘Cause romance is all well and good, but getting fucked until you scream is better.

“Oh, really, that’s interesting,” Dean says to the blond-haired, blue-eyed nobody who has been trying to talk his way into Dean’s pants for the last three minutes. Even though the _really_ interesting thing is the way Cas’ eyes darken over no-name’s shoulder as he approaches. 

Cas slides into the booth next to Dean, laying an arm across the back of the vinyl seat, curving around Dean’s shoulders.

“Hi,” he says, pressing a forceful kiss to Dean’s mouth that feels more like a claim than a sweet gesture, and something settles hot and heavy in Dean’s gut. Cas turns back to Nameless with that carefully blank expression, the one that Dean’s beginning to learn means bad things for everyone else, but potentially good things for him. “Can I help you?”

“Uh,” the guy’s eyes flick from Dean to Cas and back again. He’s clearly confused by this turn of events: going from what he perceived as a sure thing to getting in the middle of whatever _this_ is. “No?”

“Oh!” Cas suddenly says, clicking his fingers, “for a moment, I thought you were hitting on my boyfriend, but you’re just collecting his drinks order, right?” Not giving the guy any time to respond, he adds, “I’ll have whatever’s on tap. Dean?”

Dean’s trying so hard not to laugh. “Same, thanks.”

The guy starts to sputter, “No, I’m not a waiter—”

“—Oh?” Cas asks darkly, amiable ease sliding into predator mode, and Dean can feel the flush rising on his own cheeks.

_Fuck, Cas is hot like this._

“So, why were you over here then?”

The guy flounders. There’s no good answer here. Either he retreats now with absolutely no dignity or he gets to find out first-hand about the danger lurking in Cas’ eyes. 

Dean feels like the belle of the brawl. 

“Drinks,” the guy says eventually, deflating, and Dean’s only a little disappointed.

_Better luck next time._

***

  
  


“I know what you were doing,” Cas says later that night, the two of them laying tangled up in each other, sweat cooling on their bodies. “In the bar.”

“Oh yeah?” Dean squirms at the tone in Cas’ voice, pushing his face into the curve of Cas’ neck. “Why don’t you enlighten me, Cas?”

Cas is still for a moment, seemingly deciding on which way to go with this. Dean’s still holding out for getting fucked over Cas’ desk. Or the back of their couch. Or the kitchen table. 

It’s been maybe a full five minutes since he last came, but he’s ready to go another round if Cas is willing to be the wild, nasty fuck that Dean knows he can be. 

Dean’s waiting with bated breath, heart in his throat, when Cas reaches down and roughly palms Dean’s ass. 

Dean squeaks, hips jerking forward, his semi-soft dick sliding against Cas’.

Cas lifts his hand away, before bringing it back down a little harder, connecting with a sharp smack. 

It’s hardly anything, barely a lovetap, but Dean whimpers and grinds his hardening dick against the wing of Cas’ hip.

“Interesting,” Cas murmurs. He leaves his hand on Dean’s ass. 

Dean fidgets, turned on and breathing hard.

“Sleep,” Cas tells him, and Dean can hear the smile in his voice.

_Asshole._

  
  


***

From then on, Dean makes it a point to goad Cas. Watching his eyes darken is the sexiest thing ever, and Dean always holds out hope that tonight is the night Cas spanks his ass crimson. 

It doesn’t happen until a few days before orientation week, when Dean’s anxiety about the upcoming year (and stalker) is at an all-time high. 

He pushes things just a little bit too far with a dude in a bar — he barely even remembers what the guy looks like — suggesting a threesome, which the guy is definitely keen on. Dean, and especially Cas, not so much. 

The second they get through the door of their apartment, Cas is on him. 

He lights Dean’s ass on fire with the steady slaps to the meat of his butt, striking sharp and even, until Dean’s eyes and dick are weeping.

Dean comes the instant Cas’ cock pushes inside him, the smack of his pelvis against the sore sting of Dean’s ass all he needs to practically scream out his orgasm.

Even Cas is surprised, pausing behind him, groaning at the clench of Dean’s muscles around his dick. “Oh, _fuck."_

Dean’s too busy coming his bones out, so it barely registers when Cas fucks in and out jack-rabbit quick, and then he’s coming too, filling Dean up with jagged, overwhelmed thrusts before collapsing on top of him, sending another spark of pain-pleasure through Dean.

***

All in all, it’s the best summer of Dean’s life.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maybe one day I’ll write a fic where Dean chooses Benny over Cas. Today is not that day.

**Present Day, Creepy AF Forest**

"What the fuck do you mean, they _just went for a piss_ , Charlie? Where did they go? How long has it been?"

Charlie’s mouth opens and closes around nothing, speechless against Dean’s panicked onslaught.

Which is fine by Dean, ‘cause he’s got _plenty_ more questions for her. “Why didn’t you wake us up so we could all go together? There’s a fucking maniac out there and you’re happy to let forty percent of us just wander off into the forest? Jesus fucking Christ!”

He’s being unreasonable, he knows he is, but the raw-edge of panic is rising thick and fast, and the thought of something happening to Cas has him flailing around in the dark, freaking the fuck out. 

_Where the hell are they?_

Both Benny and Cas’ stuff is still here at the makeshift camp; their toothbrushes, sleeping bags. The only thing that’s missing is one of the flashlights. Even Benny’s shirt — the one he took off earlier — is still there.

Dean turns slowly on his feet, scanning the woods, squinting into the darkness. Motionless, he listens. The forest is as noisy as it was when he fell asleep, but there are no heavy crunching sounds. Nothing deliberate that might indicate a person moving around.

“Dean,” Garth says, aiming for reasonable and hitting a nudge below dread. “Just keep calm. They probably got lost coming back through the trees.”

“Cas!” Dean whisper-shouts. “Benny!”

He waits. Listens. Nothing.

_Fuckfuckfuck._

Grabbing a flashlight, Dean rushes into the trees. As he dodges trunks and ducks low under limbs, he hears Garth and Charlie following.

He swings the flashlight beam as he runs, checking this way and that, searching for any signs of movement, a mess of dark hair, a broad chest, _anything_.

_Cas, Benny, you gotta be okay, please._

After a long few minutes, Dean breaks free of the trees, leaving them behind. He runs up the slope of the driveway, feet and heart pounding. Vision jarring as he reaches the top, he scans the length of the inn, its windows and porch, and doors, and then the parking lot. 

No Cas. No Benny. No one at all.

Dean runs toward the car and stops behind it, checking in the windows for any sign of life. Nothing.

Where the fuck could they be?

Charlie and Garth appear at his side.

“Anything?” Garth asks, doubling over to catch his breath.

“No,” Dean pants, terror mounting and nerves already shredded. “Charlie, what’d you do with the poker?” 

It’s their only real weapon; they’ll likely be needing it.

“It’s in the dining room,” Charlie tells him, picking up his flashlight from the roof of the car. “I thought we were leaving. There was no need to bring it.”

_Fuck._

A sick feeling of despair washes over Dean, cold and nasty, and he fists his hands in his hair, tugging hard as he spins in place, hot tears edging into his eyes. 

He _just_ got Cas back. He’ll be damned if he loses him all over again.

“We’ve gotta go inside the hotel,” Dean decides, trying to blink away the tell-tale kaleidoscope vision that heralds something he hasn't experienced since college. “They’ve gotta be in there.”

“Dean,” Charlie says, placing a gentle palm on his shoulder, one he barely refrains from shaking off. _This isn’t her fault._ “You’re not thinking clearly. Why on earth would they be in there?”

Who the fuck knows? There’s nothing about this situation that makes sense. 

She _is_ right though. He’s not thinking things through, too blinded by emotion and visions of the worst-case scenario. Anxiety and panic are the absolute worst things to lean into during this kind of situation. He screws his eyes shut, trying to shove through the crowded thoughts in his mind to get to a place where things are less fogged by fear. 

_4-7-8._

Dean closes his mouth and quietly inhales through his nose, counting up to four as he does. He holds his breath for a count of seven, before exhaling through his mouth, counting to eight. 

“Okay,” he concedes, letting his eyes flutter open, focusing on the twin expressions of worry on his friends’ faces. It’s fine. They can figure this shit out between them. A mechanical engineer, a video games developer, and a...dentist. They’ve got this. “I’m good. Let’s think about this shit logically. Where are they? Hit me with your theories.”

“The chances are that they’re in the forest,” Garth says. “Think about it. Best case scenario, they got themselves turned around in the trees and are currently sitting back on top of the sleeping bags wondering where the hell we are, or—” He lowers his voice, softens it around the edges, “Worst case scenario, somebody’s found them and things have gone bad. Either way, they’re both big, smart guys, more than capable of looking after themselves. They wouldn’t make it easy for someone to steer them back to the hotel. So why bother?” He pauses, eyes shiny with sympathy and worry. “If anything’s happened to them, they’ll be in the forest.”

Unfortunately, Garth has a point. 

“Alright,” Dean agrees slowly, light-headed and numb-brained with the possibilities of what they might find on a more thorough search. “So we head back into the woods?”

“I think it’s our best bet,” Garth says, then looks to Charlie for confirmation. 

Chewing her lip, she nods.

The three of them start off toward the forest again, hurrying down the steep driveway, Dean praying to an entity he doesn’t believe in that Cas and Benny are okay. They reach the edge of the trees, right where they’d all followed Cas just a couple hours ago. It feels like Dean’s aged thirty years since then. 

They stride in silence back to their campsite. Dean’s heart thumps faster, hope buoying him along.

And then there’s nothing but a yawning chasm of disappointment ripping open in his chest. ‘Cause everything is exactly as they left it. No Cas or Benny. 

_Goddamn it._

Except… Dean could’ve sworn that Benny’s shirt was there before. And now it’s gone. 

_The situation is super stressful. Probably imagining shit._

Yeah.

After a couple minutes of pretty sensible and not-at-all-panicked back and forth, the three of them decide to head deeper into the forest together. Garth grabs the water, Charlie snatches another flashlight, and they begin their hike.

With one final glance at the last place he saw Cas, Dean steps around a clump of bushes and further into the closed-in confines of the woods.

Charlie leads them on their mostly silent death march.

A few minutes into it, she halts, declaring, “A trail.”

“Oh, that’s good news!” Garth exclaims with unbridled enthusiasm. And for once, Dean’s actually right there with him. 

The footpath is barely visible, even with both Charlie and Dean shining their beams directly onto the forest floor. It’s a narrow strip of matted leaves and undergrowth winding away from them. It doesn’t look as though it’s been heavily used. 

Single file, Charlie going first, Garth next, and Dean bringing up the rear, they begin to follow the path. 

There’s a chance — however small — that Cas and Benny might have walked this way, perhaps disorientated after waking up in the middle of a fucking forest.

_Benny wasn’t asleep._

Something unsettling slithers into Dean’s belly, curls up there, settles like a lead weight.

The way Benny looked at Cas before, that bitter ‘ _ask him,’_ has Dean’s thoughts splintering. He doesn’t want to believe it of Benny, but at the same time? Benny and Cas’ relationship has always been kinda… _strained_. Friendly enough on the surface, but with a bit of a weird undercurrent that Dean’s struggled to identify. He’s never asked either of them about it, ‘cause it’s only tiny sparks of friction here and there, rather than an ongoing feud or some shit. 

As far as Dean’s aware, anyways. 

Things did get a bit fucking tense there for a while after Dean and Cas broke up — Benny was the first to ask if Dean wanted Cas removed from the friendship group, but no, of course Dean didn’t want that. They’re all adults, right? 

Now, Dean’s beginning to wonder. This is a stressful situation and both Cas and Benny have a tendency to go nuclear when someone pushes their shiny big red button, so maybe, just maybe, they’re being a couple of idiots hashing shit out. Them having a polite conversation about their differences is too much to hope for, but Dean would settle for a petty fight. 

Sure, he’s gonna be at least a little annoyed if this _is_ some giant pissing competition and the pair of them have been having a fist fight over something dumb, and Dean (and Charlie and Garth) are here, Bear Grylls-ing it through the undergrowth, worrying themselves sick. 

He’ll take it over the alternative though. 

If one or both of them are hurt by anybody other than each other, then Dean’s gonna go all Erin-from-You’re-Next up in this bitch and start utilizing his less-than-standard upbringing to make the fucker suffer.

The worry that’s plaguing Dean is this: he can’t picture either of them going with a random stalker, and certainly not the both of them. And like Garth said, there’s no way one person could take two men their size. Unless that person threatened the group. Or had a gun. Or hurt one of them, forcing the other to cooperate.

Shit.

 _Please let them be okay._ **_Please._ **

If they did take this trail, they could both be fine. 

Which is the thought Dean clings to like a goddamn lifeline. He keeps telling himself that any second now, Benny’ll pop up like Jason, and he’ll get a punch to the shoulder and lecture from Charlie, whilst Cas will emerge from the trees, dark-eyed and intense, in fight or fuck mode (Cas doesn’t do flight - ironic for a dude with an angelic namesake), and Dean’ll make his feelings about Cas’ disappearance known by withholding blowjobs for at least a week.

As they trek onward, it becomes increasingly less likely that’s going to happen (not just the withholding of blowjobs, ‘cause Dean has never been able to resist Cas for long, but also the two of them jumping out at them from beyond the trees).

“They could be anywhere,” Dean murmurs. Charlie thinks Benny and Cas had already been gone for around fifteen minutes before she woke Dean and Garth up. At least another fifteen minutes have passed since then. “They’ve got a good half hour start on us.”

“Yeah,” Charlie agrees, a couple of steps ahead. “And they might’ve stopped anywhere. For all we know, they’re ten feet away from us right now.”

“Should we try calling out?” Dean asks, brain not entirely engaged, ‘cause he knows that’s a terrible idea — right up there with lighting a fire. 

See, this is why they should’ve brought food. Helps with thinking-slash-not-suggesting-stupid-shit-that-could-get-them-caught-by-the-maniac-stalker _and_ Dean could’ve left an M&M trail to follow. 

In unison, Garth and Charlie answer, “No.”

After that, they stop talking again. Dean, at the rear, listens for sounds of voices or movements in the woods around him. He swings the flashlight beam through the gaps in the trees. For a while, he holds on to hopes of spotting Cas or Benny. Then, he begins to hope that he _doesn’t_. If either of them are out here, they might be on the ground, bloodied and laying against the base of a tree, barely breathing. 

Almost afraid to keep looking, Dean keeps his attention in front of him. 

Garth doesn’t seem to be doing great either. His short hair, already a dark brown, is almost black around his ears and neck, where it clings to his skin in wet points and curls. His t-shirt is soaked with sweat.

By contrast, Charlie almost appears calm, but the back of her shirt is pasted to her skin. It takes on the shape of her shoulder blades and rib cage.

_We’ll be lucky if we don’t all collapse._

Dean’s head feels like it’s full of cotton wool; his body is hot and filthy. He’s exhausted, desperate, on a cliff’s edge, barely clinging to sanity by his fingertips.

_How the fuck is Cas feeling? Scared? Angry? Worried about Dean?_

Dean’s throat goes tight. 

_Cas_.

He can’t believe that after all these years, after all the barely-there glances during these stupid yearly meet-ups, the missed opportunities, they’ve once again finally got their shit together, and Dean’s lost him all over again. For good this time. 

_No. This_ cannot _be it._

Dean will never forgive himself if this is it.

There were so many times when this didn’t have to be it. Cas tried to talk to him in New Orleans last year, asked Dean to meet him down at the hotel bar on their last night. Dean said yes, then chickened the fuck out, knowing what would happen if he and Cas were alone, where they’d end up.

What the fuck was he so afraid of? This? Losing him again? 

Bullshit. 

The last ten years have been fine without Cas. Just _fine_. Nothing more, nothing less. An exercise in living the life he should have wanted, almost thought he did for a while, but it was a hollow experience. 

He’s never felt as alive, as in tune with who he is as a person, as he did with Cas.

They may well drag out the worst in each other, but at least Dean knows _exactly_ who he is. 

He’s made peace with his demons, even if he’s not yet entirely comfortable with their presence. Cas though, Cas makes the unease settle; makes Dean feel that all of him is capable of being loved, _deserves_ that love.

Even his demons.

 _Especially_ his demons. 

Cas loves Dean _for_ his demons, shares that dark soul, the good, the bad, and the ugly. The _everything_.

How Dean ever thought he could walk away from Cas and remain intact, _whole,_ is a question for his younger, dumber, more naive self. But there’s no doubt about it in Dean’s mind now: he should’ve stayed.

The worst thing he ever did was walk out on Cas.

 _Never again._

No. if this _is_ it, then Dean’s here. _Right fucking here_ , where he never should’ve left. 

Hot tears burn at the back of Dean’s eyes, threatening to spill over, and he hates it. Hates the way it makes him feel weak and out of control. Cas taught him better than that; you make your own damn destiny, you figure shit out yourself, you forge your own path. You don’t let anyone or anything beat you, just ‘cause they think they’ve got the upper hand. It ain’t over until it’s over.

It ain’t over until it’s _it_.

_Please, don’t let this be it._

The three of them come to a split in the trail. One path veers off to the right and the other continues straight ahead. 

“Now what?” Garth asks, wiping at his sweaty forehead with the back of his hand.

“Flip a coin?” Charlie suggests. 

“We can always come back to this if we don’t find anything,” Dean says. “Let’s see where the path we’re on goes first.”

They stick to the original path until they come to a river. It’s not particularly wide, maybe fifteen feet across. The narrow band of water rushes over bare rocks, white and frothy in places; in others, it gleams, shiny and black like onyx. 

Garth lifts the plastic water bottle. “I needn’t have bothered carrying this.”

“Dude,” Dean warns on a barely-there smile, “That water will be tapewormy as fuck.”

“What should we do?” Charlie asks. “Follow the stream?”

“There’s a pretty good chance it’ll lead us down the mountainside,” Dean says. “At the very least, it’ll keep us from walking in circles.”

Which is positive news for when they want to leave. But. They’re not ready to go back down. They need to find Cas and Benny first.

Once they’ve got them, they can come back. Find their way out of this hell, even if it takes until daylight to get anywhere. 

“We need to go back to camp,” Dean concludes. “If they came this way by themselves — under their own steam — then they would’ve realized that they’d come too far, and turned back.”

And if they didn’t? Well, it’s too much to think about right now.

“We’re going back then?” Charlie asks.

“Looks like.”

  
  


***

  
  


The return trek doesn’t feel nearly as long, and when they get to the clearing, there’s a familiar figure sitting in the middle of the sleeping bags, facing away from them, bare back a pale smudge in the darkness.

_Benny?_

Dean races toward him, heart pounding against the cage of his ribs. If Benny’s here, then Cas can’t be far behind, right?

“Benny!” Charlie shouts excitedly, then winces at her volume. 

Benny turns around as they emerge from the trees, stumbling over small rocks and their own feet in their haste to get to him. He looks _fine_. No visible wounds, trauma, nothing. Not even a black eye. Which Dean is more than happy to fix. “Where the fuck have you been?”

“Never mind us,” Dean retorts, looking past their little camp for any signs of Cas, before turning his attention back to Benny. “Where the fuck have _you been_? And where’s Cas?”

Benny’s brow creases. "He's not with you?"

_What._

Dean’s heart kicks into his throat, jack-rabbit fast. “No, we assumed he was with _you_. You disappeared together.”

Benny pushes up to his knees and explains, "We went for a piss together, but we separated to actually do it, like before.” He pauses, considering. “I heard something crunching behind me. I assumed it was him walking away."

"You _assumed_?" Dean growls, furious. "You assumed that, knowing there's somebody out there slashing tires and following our every goddamn move?”

Charlie steps up to Dean’s side, standing on Garth’s sleeping bag. “We don’t know that they’re following our _every_ move; all we know is that they’re trying to scare us and prevent us from leaving.”

Like that isn’t enough on its own.

With fumbling fingers, Dean produces the photo of him and Cas from his jeans pocket. He tries not to think about it possibly being the last picture he’ll ever have of the two of them. Shoving it into Benny’s face, he explains, “I found this outside the pool before. Whoever the fuck is here with us, is definitely following us. Or me. _Or Cas_.”

"Fuck," Benny mutters, blowing out a breath. 

“That would’ve been useful information to have before,” Charlie says, mindful of Dean's eggshell psyche right now.

Yeah, it probably would have. 

You’d think Dean would be better at this whole being stalked thing, but apparently, he’s in just as many shattered pieces as the first time.

And now there’s a very real possibility that he’s gonna lose Cas. 

"If anything happens to him…" Dean's voice wavers just thinking about it. It cuts into the deepest, softest parts of him, leaves him winded. He tucks the photo back into his pocket, keeping it safe. 

_Even if you couldn’t do the same for Cas._

"Okay, just calm down," Charlie says. "Let's think about this logically. We need some kind of plan, because this place is huge, and we’ll never find him unless he’s lucky enough to find us. Which will be next to impossible if we’re moving around. And the chances of him waiting for us to come back like Benny did are next to nothing, right?”

Right. Cas is too proactive for that shit. If he did make his way back to camp, as soon as he found out they weren’t there, he’d start looking for them. 

_Interesting that Benny didn’t._

Though, the real question is, how the fuck did Benny wander far enough to get lost, but not so far that he couldn’t find them again? 

_After fifty or so minutes._

That’s… actually a good point. 

“How _did_ you find us?” Dean asks. “‘Cause you were gone for an awfully long time, man.”

“I just got turned around,” Benny responds, attention snapping to Dean. He gets to his feet. “It’s easy to do—”

“Sure,” Dean agrees easily. “But both of you getting lost? When you wandered, what? Ten, twenty feet from camp? There’s only so many directions to go in. You should’ve found us before now.”

“What are you insinuatin’?” Benny demands, getting all up in Dean’s face. Dean refuses to back down, which results in the two of them squaring off chest-to-chest, all drunken bar brawl. Dean can see the core of his own rage, and it's a core on the brink of a meltdown.

Charlie winnows her hands between them, attempting to pry them apart, but neither of them are little guys, so it has precisely zero effect.

“Not insinuating anything, Benny. Just raising the fact that you were kinda pissed at Cas before the two of you decided to disappear off into the woods together.”

Open-mouthed, Benny looks past Dean to Charlie and then Garth, seeking an ally.

Neither of them say anything. Which speaks volumes.

“ _He_ wanted to go,” Benny blurts, frustrated and ostensibly incredulous at the situation he’s found himself in. “ _He_ was the one who woke up and needed to piss.”

“And you were awfully eager to go with him,” Charlie comments stonily. 

“Yeah,” Benny’s eyes dart between the three of them as he backs up a step. “Because the whiskey we’ve been drinkin’ all evenin’ had gone right through me, and I thought it was a better idea to go together, rather than lettin’ him go off alone!”

_Convenient._

“Where’s your shirt, Benny?” Dean asks, in a sudden change of topic, hoping to wrongfoot his friend into giving something away. 

Benny’s expression dips. “What?”

“Your shirt,” Dean clarifies, gesturing at Benny’s naked torso. “It’s not here and you’re not wearing it. So what have you done with it?”

“I…” Benny stares at Dean in disbelief. “Just what is it you're accusin’ me of?”

“Answer the question, Benny,” Garth says, voice frozen over.

Outnumbered and on the wrong end of an interrogation, Benny sighs. “I wasn’t wearin’ it. I left it here. So it either got lost in the mess of clothes and sleepin’ bags, or somebody stole it.” He fumbles, trying to come up with another explanation. “Charlie! You saw me leavin’ without it on, right?”

All eyes turn toward Charlie. 

“I honestly can’t remember,” she admits. “I was starting to fall asleep. He might’ve been wearing it, he might not have.”

That’s enough for Dean. The accusation bubbles up, thick and hot like lava, and he doesn’t even consider stopping himself from demanding, “Where’s Cas?”

“I don’t know!” Benny yells, throwing his arms up and turning away from Dean. He begins searching through their stuff. “He was right behind me until he wasn’t.”

Fuck. They’re not getting anywhere this way. 

Benny’s not gonna admit anything unless Dean’s smart about it. 

_If there’s even anything to admit._

There must be though. ‘Cause it makes absolutely no sense for the two of them to have just wandered off for fifty minutes. There’s no way Benny’s letting them see the full picture. 

Dean mentally spools through all the times Cas forced him to roleplay for his appellate advocacy class, which was all about the formation of an oral argument and various lines of questioning (and more often than not led to a very different kind of oral). 

No lecturing. Exchange ideas. Respond to concerns.

“Alright,” Dean decides. He’s gonna respond to a concern. Hopefully, it’ll have Benny opening up. “So maybe it’s time we talk about what Cas and I did.” 

It’s literally the last thing Dean wants to get into. Not when Cas is still out there somewhere, but it’s this or they keep going around in fucking circles whilst Cas is getting his foot eaten by a bear or a cannibal. Benny knew something about what they did, and that’s gotta have some bearing on the situation here. 

“We killed him,” Dean says. “The guy was harassing me, making my life absolutely fucking miserable. So we followed him on a morning run up in the fire trails. Cas shot him, and we lit his body on fire and buried him in a shallow grave.”

That’s the abridged version. 

Charlie makes a choked-off noise in the back of her throat. Garth looks paler than usual. Benny… Benny’s half-expression is unreadable, still partially turned away as he pretends to search for something they all know isn’t there. Like he’s trying to buy himself some breathing space and lie-formulating time.

Which leads Dean neatly into his next question. “But how did _you_ know that? How could you _possibly_ have known that? Cas and I never told a soul, and nobody saw us. We were careful.”

_Careful enough?_

Benny halts his pantomime search and exhales on a sigh. He turns to look at them, expression hang-dog and pleading. “Y’all need to hear me out, okay? Before you freak the fuck out.”

“Tell us,” Charlie demands, folding her arms across her chest. “ _Now_ , Benny.”

Benny locks eyes with her — his friend for fifteen years. It could all come down to what he says next, so it’s apparent he’s choosing his words very carefully. “I didn’t _know,_ not for definite. But at the time, I knew there was something about it… that Ketch fella.” He glances at Dean. “Just by the way you reacted when you bumped into him in the Botanical Garden that time, Dean. And then the fight at the party. You remember?” 

Oh, Dean remembers. 

Benny continues, “But it wasn’t till I was back in California a month or two ago, hammerin’ out the details for my new restaurant in San Francisco, that I saw the news reports. The ones talkin’ about findin’ the remains of some British kid out in the fire trails. That’s when I put it all together. Your reaction in the Garden, Cas’ beatdown of the guy, how your stalker just disappeared. The way you and Cas were with each other. All of it.”

Dean’s pretty sure there’s ice in his veins replacing the blood, ‘cause every inch of him goes corpse-cold.

Fuck. 

If Benny pieced it together, could anyone else? Charlie and Garth didn’t. But they were missing important sections. Benny had the entire jigsaw spread out in front of him; he just had to assemble it.

_So did Jo. She knew it all._

Fuck. 

Did whoever is here stalking them right now kill her too?

Conspiracy theory territory right there. Jo died in a car accident. Nothing orchestrated about it. 

_It was a hit and run._

No. That’s too much. Dean cannot be responsible for Jo’s death, he just can’t.

“Dean?” Charlie tries, but Dean’s too far down the rabbit hole to respond.

‘Cause _now_ he’s freaking out about the fact that they found and identified the guy. Why the _fuck_ didn’t Cas call him, drop him a quick voicemail? “So, hey Dean, our skeletons are about to come tumbling out of the fucking closet here. Hope you like prison food and becoming the Andy Dufresne to some bastard’s Bogs Diamond.”

Though, before tonight, would Dean have listened without deleting? 

Probably not.

_Fuck._

He’s spiraling again, panic clawing at his throat, insides crumpling like a can, so he focuses on his breathing technique. 

_4-7-8._

Ironically, it’s something Cas taught him right around the time they decided to murder Arthur Ketch.

Dean counts to four, holds his breath for seven, breathes out on eight. He repeats it a couple times whilst the others watch on, concern etched into their expressions.

Calmer again, Dean manages what he hopes is a vaguely reassuring smile.

Because there’s absolutely nothing to link either of them to that crime scene. Especially not after thirteen years. They’re fine on that score. If the cops had jack shit, they’d have knocked on his door already.

Still. This just cements Dean’s opinion that the person doing all this has to be someone they all knew back in college. Or maybe an angry relative or friend of Ketch’s wanting revenge? But in piecing it together, they’d have to have known about Arthur Ketch’s crimes, and that would make them just as bad as him, complicit even. Right?

Oh _fuck_ , what if this person helped him the first time around?

It would certainly make sense, as well as explaining how they’ve got copies of those old pictures. 

_Shit shit fuck._

But why _now_?

The only thing that’s changed between then and now is the official confirmation of death. Just a piece of paper. Whoever this is has waited thirteen years for revenge, all the while supposedly knowing who is responsible, simply needing the confirmation that the dude is actually dead, like a goddamn permission slip?

It doesn’t make sense. Dean’s missing something huge here.

And why is this person coming after _all_ of them? 

If they know for sure that Dean and Cas are responsible, then why not just take them out at home, with no witnesses? ‘Cause this? This is all super elaborate. Though, that’s probably part of the fun; keeping it theatrical and sadistic.

And just _how_ do they know for sure that it was Cas and Dean? Assuming they know about Ketch’s stalking, it’s still one hell of a leap to make on basically nothing. 

_The party?_

The party where Cas beat the ever-loving shit outta the dude. It perhaps wasn’t the wisest move to kill him six months later, but fights happen at college parties all the time, how the fuck would anyone have remembered that?

Apparently, somebody did.

Fuck.

And they think that the whole group was in on it? Or at the very least they’re angry-and-or-unbalanced enough to not care about the collateral damage.

It does explain a lot. Not everything, but a lot. Confirmation that their friend is dead after all these years, combined with a pretty solid idea of who did it.

Goddamn, this really is all Dean’s fault.

And now everyone is paying the price.

“Shit!” Dean curses, hot-blooded and stupid with it. “Fuck!” He throws a punch into the nearest tree trunk, the bark rough and splitting his knuckles on impact, leaving behind a smear of blood. 

Charlie’s immediately there, snapping at Garth for the water bottle, which she upends and splashes over Dean’s hand, washing away dirt, sap, and blood. “You’re a fucking idiot,” she tells him, but the words lack any real bite.

“Yeah,” he agrees feebly, his anger ebbing away and getting replaced with the dull throb of pain. “I know.” He looks over his shoulder at Benny, who’s watching him, unnerved and uneasy. “You said that we need to not freak out, but what you’ve told us so far isn’t exactly freakout-worthy.” He ignores Charlie’s archly murmured, ‘tell that to your hand,’ in favor of instructing Benny to continue.

“I followed you home one day,” Benny admits, “back when you lived in the dorms. It was when you found that photo at the Garden, and I just wanted to make sure that you were okay.”

Dean already knows he isn’t gonna like this.

“I looked up at the building right as you went in, and Cas was standing there at your window.”

_Eh?_

Dean’s not following this telenovela line of logic.

“Okay?” Dean says from between the grit of his teeth, hissing when Charlie starts picking bits of tree out of his knuckles. “Not seeing your point here, Benny. Cas was at the window in his own dorm room?”

“Like he was watching you. Watching _for_ you. Waiting for you.”

Dean doesn’t say anything, just lets his skeptical expression do all the work for him. 

“He was always weird around you,” Benny defends. 

“Oh, wow,” Garth mutters, impressively sarcastic for him. “Here we go.”

_What?_

"Are you jealous?" Charlie asks Benny, but it’s definitely more accusatory than a genuine question. "Is that what this is about? You regret not trying it on with Dean, so now you're taking it out on Cas?'

"What?" Dean says — aloud this time — head jerking up, glancing between his three friends.

"Oh, yeah." Charlie keeps working on Dean’s hand, shooting Benny a stabby sort of stare. "He had the biggest thing for you in college. Practically drew hearts on his fucking notebooks with your names double-barrelled." 

"That true, Benny?" Dean asks as evenly as he can when his stomach’s turning over like a V8. "'Cause it's kinda funny that the stalker shit started happening right when I met you all. And it obviously ain't gonna be Charlie or Garth."

Benny's mouth actually drops open. "You're not saying…?" He studies Dean's face. "You are."

He’s not, not really, but Benny is hiding _something_.

“Where’s Cas?” Dean demands, unstable and not entirely opposed to bloodying his other fist on Benny’s face. “What have you done with him?”

“How the fuck has this gotten turned around on me?” Benny’s voice goes up at least half an octave. “ _He’s_ the fuckin’ psycho, not me!”

_Ah._

The truth, at last.

“That how you really feel, Benny?” Dean fires back, and it’s a bullet graze rather than an out-and-out gut shot. “That why you followed him out into the woods and hurt him?”

“Jesus Christ, no!” Benny yells, and Dean can see the tiny cracks forming in his story. Benny’s eyes bounce between the three of them and he visibly deflates. "Look, he said he had to piss, and I went with him, right?” 

Right. This part of the tale is not being contested. So far, so good. 

“We were going a bit far, so I commented that I hoped we wouldn’t get lost. Cas didn’t reply, just kept on walkin’ like he was on a grim parade or whatever. I kept followin’ him.” Benny scrubs a hand over his jaw. “And then he turned around and said that I needed to leave you alone, Dean. I asked what the fuck he meant, but he wouldn’t say. We separated, peed, then I couldn’t quite figure out my way back. The last I saw of him was when I turned my back to piss and heard him movin’ around behind me.”

Dean knows that’s not the full story; it can’t be. There must have been something else.

As if on cue, Dean hears the snap-shuffle of someone or some _thing_ making their way through the forest.

Fuck.

It’s coming closer.

Dean half-glances at his friends, but they’re all frozen in place too, eyes and flashlights fixed in the direction that the noise is coming from. 

It could just be an animal or something, but it’d have to be a pretty big fucking animal to be making as much noise as it is.

A bear, maybe.

If it _is_ a bear, they can add it to their list of ninety-nine problems. 

“Dean?” an exhausted, disembodied voice calls, and Dean’s heart both sinks and leaps at the same time.

_Cas._

Instinctively, he sprints out of the clearing toward the voice, branches scratching at his arms as he shoves through the trees and springy saplings. The beam of the flashlight darts everywhere as he jumps and pushes on, most likely signaling to anyone watching precisely where they are, but he can’t bring himself to care. He just needs to get to Cas.

Leaning against a thick tree trunk, an arm banded around his waist, looking simultaneously terrible and like the most beautiful thing Dean’s ever seen, is Cas. 

Dean’s heart stutters in his chest, eyes catching and sticking on the slick crimson that seems to be everywhere, making Cas’ shirt black, heavy, and shiny.

“Cas.” Dean rushes toward him, catching Cas right as he collapses, the full weight of him falling against Dean. 

There's so much blood. So fucking much. Dean can't even tell where it's coming from beyond the deep gash on Cas’ forearm and the thick trickle pumping sluggishly from a head wound. 

Bile rises in Dean’s throat, the fear and anger soaring with it.

Together, they sink down, Dean holding Cas in his arms, folding to his knees on the forest floor. 

“Cas,” Dean repeats, voice thick with emotion. “What happened? Where are you hurt?”

His hands move over Cas’ torso in the semi-dark, the flashlight left on top of a mat of brown pine needles, not providing a huge amount of light. His palms come back coated in rich red, the metallic scent of blood thick in his nostrils. 

_Fuck._

He wipes his hand off on his jeans, pushes the sweaty strands of hair back from Cas’ pale face. “Cas, baby. Talk to me. Where are you hurt?”

Behind him, Dean hears what he hopes are the others. The sound of snapping and rustling comes closer, feet crushing foliage. “Dean!” Charlie calls out, and Dean reaches for the flashlight to shine the beam around to indicate precisely where they are.

The broad width of his back supported by Dean’s other arm, Cas finally speaks. “I’m fine. I just need a minute.”

It’s an unconvincing lie to say the least, but Dean magnanimously lets it slide.

“Yeah?” Dean croaks instead, sharp rocks stabbing at the soft bits of his knees. He feels all Hollywood dramatic, cradling Cas’ body, the two of them down in the dirt like old times. 

“What happened to your hand?” Cas asks, always worried about Dean. It’s a distraction technique, Dean knows, but he’s willing to humor Cas, just this once. 

“Fight with a tree,” Dean responds flippantly, even though it smarts like a motherfucker. Flippant deflection is practically their love language at this point. “What happened to your... _everything_?”

Cas ignores the question. “Well, I hope you won. I don’t want to have to fight a whole forest for you. I’m not exactly in the best condition.”

“Yeah,” Dean agrees with a gruff half-laugh. “Why _is_ that again?”

Cas’ eyes dart past Dean to someone or something just behind him. His focus lingers there, shadows flickering behind his expression. Dean turns. Benny’s standing there, snatching glances at them as he — and Charlie and Garth — wait nervously and pretend not to be listening in. 

“Benny?” Dean asks, and can’t quite keep the incredulity out of his voice despite the accusations earlier. He looks back at Cas. “He did this?”

Cas nods once and then grimaces. 

Benny steps up to them, looming over Dean and Cas. It’s not the best move if he’s hoping to prove his not-at-all-menacing innocence. “What the fuck, Cas? I didn’t do _that_.” He gestures broadly at Cas and all the blood. “Look, okay, so maybe we had a disagreement, but it was nothing like _this_.”

_Oh, so it was a ‘disagreement’ now?_

Cas doesn’t say anything. 

Nobody does. Even as Benny’s desperation ratchets up several notches. "Dean, you _know_ me." 

Yeah, that’s the problem.

Finding no luck with Dean, he tries Charlie and Garth. "C'mon, why would I?"

"Ain't that the question?" Dean mutters bitterly.

"I don't know, Benny," Charlie admits. "But why would Cas lie?"

"He wouldn't," Dean instantly defends. Irrefutable. 

"Well, obviously you're gonna fuckin' say that," Benny sneers, gesturing to where Cas is in Dean's arms. "Just look at them though, Charlie. _Really_ look at them. Shit's not healthy. You know it, I know it. They were always worryingly codependent, and that’s even before they killed someone together. Which brings me to another point: they’re fucking murderers, and you’re tellin’ me that you believe _them_ over _me_?”

“Yeah, ‘cause you’ve always told the truth, right, Benny?” Dean’s glaring daggers, and his words are deliberately barbed to inflict the most harm, but the real, incriminating, damage-doing shit is in what he _isn’t_ saying. If Benny wants to play fast and loose with the truth and people’s emotions, then Dean can do the fucking same. “It all makes sense now, huh? Why you were so _concerned_ about me. Why you were so weird around him.”

“Why?” Cas rasps, a hand on Dean’s bicep, leaving the red smudge of a print behind when he lets it drop. 

“He had a crush on me in college,” Dean explains in a soft, precise voice, not taking his eyes off of Benny. “Pathetic, right?”

In return, he receives a snarled, “Oh, fuck you, Dean.”

“Not in this lifetime, asshole.”

“O-kay!” Charlie intervenes, making the time-out sign with her hands. “This is not helping. Just…” she looks between the three of them, “put a pin in it until we figure out what to do next.”

“Which is what?” Garth asks.

The question to end all questions. Dean would suggest another brainstorm, but it’s become obvious after tonight that they lack the proper equipment.

“Normally, I’d say we should at least attempt to get down the mountain, but thanks to Benny, that’s out of the question,” Dean answers. Then, just to really drive the point home with a stake through the heart, he tacks on, “Cas is probably too injured, and I’m not gonna risk it.”

Benny opens his mouth to speak, but Garth clips him on the back of the head. 

“We could wait for a search party, but nobody’s expecting us back for a week,” Dean continues. “Plus, I didn’t know where we were going, so anybody who might report me missing wouldn’t be able to point a search party in the right direction.”

“Garth!” Charlie whips her head around to look at him. “Who knows we’re here? You told somebody where you were taking us, right? Your wife? The homewrecker?”

“Don’t call her that,” Garth grumps. “But yeah, Meg knows we’re here.”

_Meg?_

“Meg? _Masters?_ ” Dean splutters, wiping away a sudden drop of rain from his forehead. “She’s the chick you left your wife for?”

“I didn’t leave my wife for her,” Garth snaps. “My wife kicked me out because she misunderstood. I simply told her that I’d met my college girlfriend—”

“—Girlfriend’s a bit of an overestimation,” Charlie interjects, turning her gaze skyward as more fat drops of rain fall. “Fuck buddy?”

Garth ignores her. “—and Bess jumped to the wrong conclusion. It was just a misunderstanding, that’s all. I had plans to fix everything when I got back.”

Oh. “Man, that sucks,” Dean says, quietly relieved that he’s not the only one whose past is coming back to bite them in the ass. 

Cas makes a low sound of pain, his eyes fighting to stay open, lashes fluttering. He blinks sluggishly as the rain hits him.

_Shit shit shit._

They need to get a proper look at his wounds, bandage him up with whatever they can.

“Meg’s the one who told me about this place, actually,” Garth adds, making casual conversation, instead of coming up with a solution to this shitshow.

_Huh._

Just as Dean’s about to ask a very important question about Meg and her alibi, the sky abruptly tears open, rain pouring down in cold sheets. They’ve got some protection from the tree canopy, but not nearly enough. 

And then, to add insult to _literal_ injury, lightning flashes overhead, cracking the sky, forging a forked path to earth. The scent of ozone overlays the pine and blood.

The trees up a damn mountain are the last place they wanna be right now.

Thunder roars. The rain falls harder.

_Fuck._

Looks like they’ll be heading back inside that fucking hotel.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It wouldn’t be a duckyboos murder husband fic without some poor prick’s murder getting romanticized.

**UC Berkeley, junior year, 13 years ago**

On the first day of classes after summer, Cas escorts Dean to the Mechanical Engineering building, all French Royal Court style (minus the fancy ruffles and guillotines). The two of them are still giddy and glowing from their perfect summer, even whilst Dean’s trying his best to ignore the low-level dread gnawing at his insides. As they walk across campus, bumping shoulders like they physically can’t stay out of each other’s space, Cas seems to sense Dean’s worry, because he leans in and whispers, like it’s a secret, “It’ll be fine, Dean. I promise.”

Dean believes him, he does. But the smile he produces feels like an apparition of one, and there’s no way it would fool someone who’s never met him before, let alone Cas, who knows him inside and out. 

Cas is most likely about to say something to that effect, when they both hear Dean’s name being yelled out in a pane-rattling screech.

Coffee in hand, Dean turns.

Jo’s rushing toward them, single-shoulder book-bag slapping low against her hip, blonde hair a wild mess, a big, dumbass grin on her face that Dean knows he’s mirroring.

Sure, he’s had an amazing summer and is having trouble coming to terms with the fact that in order for Cas to pass his classes, he’s gonna have to leave Dean’s side and actually _attend_ them, but he’s excited to see Jo. She left campus before The Party That Changed His Life, and they’ve texted over the summer, but it’s hardly the same. 

He has a _lot_ to catch her up on. 

“Hey,” she punches Dean playfully on the shoulder once she reaches them. Cas scowls. Most likely at the punch rather than the touch itself, but Dean’s heart performs a weak little love-sick leap anyways. “You deaf or something? I was yelling from all the way back there.”

“Sorry,” Dean says, eyes sliding over Cas’ frowny face. “We were kinda in our own world.”

“Yeah,” she agrees breathlessly, hitching her backpack strap up her shoulder. “It’s disgustingly adorable, actually.”

Cas does that baby-bird head tilt, like he’s trying to decipher a foreign language, and Dean wants to drown himself in the ocean blue of his eyes. “Hear that, Cas? We’re disgustingly adorable. Personally, I prefer the term ‘ruggedly winsome’.”

Cas cracks a reluctant smile at that. It’s a fond ‘you’re-thoroughly-ridiculous’ smile, and it’s one of Dean’s favorites. Second only to the devious ‘you’re-gonna-pay-for-that’ smirk. 

“I can take it from here, handsome,” Jo tells Cas. “I’ll make sure the pretty princess gets to where he needs to be.”

Dean and Cas exchange glances. 

She sighs. “Look, I get that you’re both a bit skittish what with everyone being back on campus and stuff, but I’m sure whoever it was has gotten bored and moved on. Especially after the display at the party that I’ve heard _so_ much about."

Not _that_ much. Bitch. 

Despite her devil-may-care attitude toward the creeper, Dean’s not convinced, and with the tight, almost military way Cas holds himself as he scans the quad, Dean knows his boyfriend ain’t comfortable with it either.

Dean shifts his weight, torn. He’s grown accustomed to him and Cas being joined at the… well _everything_ , over the past few months. Prying themselves apart was always gonna be crowbar-tough, even though they knew it was coming. 

Deciding for them, Cas leans in to kiss Dean, a hand on the base of his skull, a chaste press of lips. The kiss loses its innocence pretty quickly, Cas pushing for more, and Dean reciprocates, of course he does, and it’s all hot, urgent slide of tongues, warmth and wetness. He’s as lost to this as Cas is, the fireworks in his blood, the pretty pretty heart-skip of being in love and not giving a fuck who knows it.

Cas pulls away, satisfied. He cups Dean’s jaw, dragging the flat of his thumb across Dean’s bottom lip, before pulling away and sucking the taste of them into his own mouth.

It’s hot as hell and Dean makes a hurt little noise.

Coy and beguiling in the way Dean’s learned Cas can be, whilst simultaneously being the dommiest dom, his boyfriend begins backing away. “I’ll see you at home?”

_Yes, yes you will, you calculating bastard._

“He’s kinda intense, ain’t he?” Jo comments as they watch Cas turn on his heel and stride off across campus. 

Dean grins into his coffee, the memory of Cas spanking him a couple of days ago still fresh in his mind and on his skin. “Oh, you have no idea.”

  
  


***

It’s a couple of days later when Dean’s leaving a lecture that Jo skipped out on ( _‘it’s the first week, dude, nobody cares’_ ). He’s unsupervised for the first time since the stalker shit started last semester, and he’s not entirely comfortable. Thankfully, he’s not gonna be alone for long; he’s supposed to be meeting Cas at the library, which is literally in his line of sight.

Can’t be that difficult, right?

He used to walk around unattended all the time, BS (before stalker).

Still, he feels exposed, standing there in the quad without somebody at his side, yacking in his ear about the latest dick on the carousel (Jo), how Freddy Krueger is Nancy’s dad (Garth), LSAT prep (Cas), or some punk band with a hot chick singer (Charlie).

In fact, that last one might be able to help with the weird silence. So in a moment of false confidence, Dean unravels his headphones from his Walkman, deciding to finally listen to that punk band Charlie’s been nagging at him to give a chance: “Not only is their singer super fucking hot, dude, but they’re pretty cool. Give that cock rock a break for five minutes and listen to something from this millennium.”

Led Zeppelin ain’t cock rock, but he understands the sentiment. He and Cas exist in their own little classic rock bubble, so he probably _should_ branch out a little and at least give this shit a try.

Headphones on, he pushes down the play button and starts his journey to the library.

He keeps his head down as he walks, not wanting to engage with anyone, not even the friendly leafletter who shoves a flyer for a frat house kegger into his chest. He catches it before it flutters to the floor, but crumples it up and shoves it in the next trash can.

It’s the longest walk of his life, and it only takes maybe five minutes.

His palms are clammy by the time he reaches the library, but then his heart is beating fast and hard for a different reason when he catches sight of Cas rising to his feet to greet him. He’s obviously been studying for his upcoming LSAT, eager to take it well before the deadline in case he fucks it up (he won’t, dude is a damn genius). 

As Cas hastily shoves the books into his bag, Dean watches, mesmerized by the soft cling of his own shirt on Cas’ body. Dean’s eyes slide downward, to an ass in jeans that are probably too tight to be decent, but like fuck is Dean complaining. 

He grins in response to Cas’ own sunshine smile and greets his boyfriend with a chaste(ish) kiss.

Cas says something, his plush mouth shaping around words that Dean can’t hear, and it’s then that he realizes he’s tuned out the music for the last couple of minutes. Dean pushes the headphones down around his neck.

“Huh?”

“I said,” Cas enunciates with fond patience, “what are you listening to?”

“Oh,” Dean looks down at the Walkman as if it’s gonna help him remember the name of the band. It doesn’t. “Something Charlie gave me last night. Some punk band. Apparently, the chick is really hot. Sounds to me like she needs a throat lozenge.”

“Let me listen,” Cas demands, pressing himself right up against Dean’s side and lifting a headphone to his ear. Dean lifts the other to his own. 

_‘..._ _for eternal life. I love a man from California, he’s the prettiest thing, we got the same disorder…’_

Dean turns his head just enough to catch his boyfriend’s eye. The blue is bright and roguish as Cas stares right back at him, hopefully-please-pretty-please-with-a-cherry-on-top thinking the same thing.

_I love a man from California._

  
  


***

That first week is blissfully free of any stalkerishness. 

Dean should’ve known it was too good to be true. 

***

  
  


The Tuesday of the second week, Dean receives the first stalker photo of his junior year.

It’s not actually him who finds it; it’s one of his classmates. Which is at least thirty shades of mortifying, because seriously, dude? He’s getting bolder; the whatever-the-fuck-this-is between them no longer relegated to Dean’s dorm and places that the stalker knows he’s definitely gonna be, like the Botanical Garden or the party. 

Almost like it’s a warning for _everyone_.

According to the girl who drops the photo on his desk, this one was pinned to the noticeboard _outside of the Mechanical Engineering building._

Obviously, it’s of him. 

But it’s also of some chick he barely even remembers talking to in the quad. He can’t even recall her name. It looks like she’s laughing at something he said, her long, dark hair caught on a gust of wind as she tilts her head back; a freeze-frame of some lame-ass joke that most likely wasn’t all that funny.

Apparently, the interaction was enough for his stalker to deem it an affront to his claim on Dean or some such shit.

Dean barely refrains from letting out a primal scream right there in the damn lecture hall, with students filing in for their class on Structural Aspects of Biomaterials. He’d been looking forward to this class, but instead, he spends the whole hour and a half taking absolutely nothing in, just staring down at the photo, his fingertips stick-tacky against the print. 

Goddamn, he thought he was safe. He thought this was _over_. 

“Dean,” Jo says, shoving none-too-gently at his shoulder. 

“Huh?” 

“Class is finished. You gonna stay here for the freshman lecture on Mechanical Vibrations?”

Normally, Dean would make a dirty joke and she knows it, leaving it wide open for him to do so, but he’s barely functional, brain skipping over and over like Milli fucking Vanilli. 

She tugs at his jacket. “Dude, come on. The next load of students are coming in.”

Abruptly reanimated, he tips all his stuff into his backpack, photo included, and nearly injures himself in his haste to get the hell outta there. 

***

Cas isn’t waiting for him outside — per Dean’s stupid, over-confident request — so Dean runs all the way home, practically falling in through their front door and slapping the photo down on their tiny Formica kitchen table, where Cas is chewing carefully on a sandwich as he studies for his LSAT. 

“Looks like we’re back on.”

  
  


***

Things get worse. 

A lot worse.

‘Cause somehow the stalker has found out where Dean and Cas live, so more photos, notes, and even a box of fucking _chocolates_ turn up on their doorstep and in various places all over campus. 

Dean’s not safe anywhere.

“Maybe we should move?” he suggests, tossing the box into the trash without opening it. It feels like his body is trying to hyperventilate without the necessary oxygen; he’s light-headed and kind of floaty. Like he’s transcended panic and is now just in a weird state of acceptance. 

“We’re not moving,” Cas responds, the growl of his voice dipping down into that dark-scented place, and it’s unequivocal, irrefutable. “We will deal with this. He doesn’t get to do this to you.”

_Goddamn, Cas._

Dean doesn’t quite swoon, but it’s a close thing. “How are we gonna deal with it? Go to the cops again? The fact that it stopped over the summer isn’t gonna be anything more than circumstantial, right?”

There’s something pure in the way Cas turns that homicidal gaze on him, something violent and _safe_. ‘Cause Cas is his ferocious angelface, his guard dog, and he’ll never let anything happen to Dean. 

“No cops,” Cas answers. “We keep it between us.”

  
  


***

A couple of nights later, Dean’s preparing burgers for dinner, chopping up some lettuce (the only green thing he’ll be eating this week), when he feels the air behind him shift, and the fresh, clean scent of Cas curls around him. 

“I didn’t hear you come home,” Dean murmurs, turning his head to catch Cas’ mouth in a kiss as Cas traps him against the kitchen counter. His chest molded to Dean’s spine, his heat bleeding into Dean, Cas pecks Dean on the mouth before tossing a thin wedge of papers down onto the laminate worktop. “What’s that?”

“Why don’t you look and see?” Cas answers, breath hot over the shell of Dean’s ear. On a shiver, Dean lays the knife on the chopping board, wipes his hands on a nearby dishcloth, and reaches for the papers. Cas’ hands go to Dean’s hips, thumbs fitting into the grooves, rubbing back and forth underneath his t-shirt.

It’s distracting as fuck, but Dean perseveres. 

The papers are an in-depth dossier of a UC student named Arthur Ketch. He’s British, born in Blackheath, London, and he’s 21. He’s studying history on an international scholarship. Dean lifts the top sheet to read the one below. It’s his intermediate transcript and schedule, showing his classes and his GPA. Which is a healthy 3.7.

“Is this…?” _my stalker._

“Yes.”

Holy shit. There’s everything here. His student visa details, his references, his admission essay (titled: European Expansion in a Time of Colonialism), his SAT results, even a scanned-in copy of his passport. 

“How did you get a hold of all this, Cas?”

“Meg stole it for us. She snuck into the registrar’s office.”

_What?_

A hot spike of jealousy goes through him. Even after all this time. 

Leaving the papers behind on the counter, Dean turns in the cage of Cas’ arms. Goddamn, he’s so fucking pretty. It’s hard to stay mad at him, but Dean’s gonna give it the old college try. “ _Meg_ knows? About me getting stalked? Seriously?”

Cas blinks. “She’s a very good friend,” he answers, like that explains it all.

“She’s not a friend of mine!” Dean shoves at the solid set of his boyfriend’s shoulders, half-heartedly trying to push him away, but Cas doesn’t budge. “Jesus Christ, Cas, I don’t want everyone knowing about the shit that’s going on in my life.” 

Cas tilts his head, squints. “You had no problem telling Jo, Charlie, Garth, and Benny.”

That’s not the point.

“Yeah, but they’re my friends. I don’t know Meg.”

“I do.”

“Yeah,” Dean agrees, old insecurities coming up on him in a bitter rush. “I’ll just bet you do.”

Cas’ expression slides from ingenuous right into menace. Dean fights not to react, but his body is hard(heh)wired at this point; his response practically Pavlovian. “What do you mean by that?”

Dean’s trapped between a kitchen counter and a hard place. Cas knows exactly what Dean means — he’s not dumb — but he wants Dean to say it aloud so that they can hear how stupid it sounds when Dean’s insecurity is given voice. After all, Meg isn’t the one living with Cas. Meg isn’t the one Cas comes home to. Meg isn’t the one Cas has gone to all this trouble for.

Still. Dean’s not backing down. No matter how badly he wants to roll over and show his belly. “You and Meg. Ever been a little more than just ‘very good friends’?”

“Have you and Jo?”

_Seriously?_

“No. I’ve told you. We’re just friends. I don’t think of her like that.”

Cas arches an eyebrow. And straight away, Dean gets his point.

“Yeah, alright. I hear you. Though, to be fair, you never walked in on me and Jo making out.”

Cas hums. “That is true. If it makes you feel better, I was actively trying to make you jealous.” He reaches past Dean to snatch up the papers. “And look, it worked.”

 _Dick._

Dean seizes the opportunity to snatch a win from the jaws of defeat. “So, are you saying that if I ever want to make you feel jealous, all I have to do is make out with Jo?”

And there’s that tension again, thick with promise. Dean’s gonna get his ass spanked tonight, and his dick chubs up in his jeans, already on board and sailing off into the sunset with the idea.

“Try it and see what happens,” Cas replies breezily, but there’s an undercurrent of ‘I’ll make sure you regret it’ in his tone.

Bratty and defiant and in the mood to get fucked to within an inch of his worn-thin sanity, Dean tempts fate by saying, “Maybe I will.”

Just to see what Cas’ll do. 

  
  


***

Now they know everything there is to know about Arthur Ketch, Dean’s not sure what to do with the information. Do they send him bouquets, chocolates, and multi-tools (or the historian equivalent — a bronze age rock or some shit)? Maybe make fun of the extraneous vowels in his admissions essay? Sure, it’s good to put a name to the face that’s been making Dean’s life hell since May, and yeah, there’s certainly power in knowledge. Knowing that his name is _Arthur_ theoretically removes a good chunk of the intimidation, but beyond that, nothing really changes. 

At least until the day Arthur Ketch approaches Dean. 

Dean’s leaving his lecture, not really concentrating on where he’s going, just in a hurry to get there. Jo’s flaked out _again_ and Dean wants to get the fuck home, before he gets accosted by someone with another photo, as if the whole thing is a weird scavenger hunt and Dean’s the prize. 

It’s unfortunate, then, that today’s the day Arthur Ketch chooses to wait for Dean outside the Mechanical Engineering building, like he’s Dean’s escort, instead of the one Dean should be getting escorted the hell away from. 

Dean stops dead, rooted to the spot, almost bottlenecking the doorway of the building. 

Luckily, one of his classmates — after all, they _are_ budding engineers and solutions to problems are supposed to be their bread and butter — pushes open the second door in the double set, allowing the mass of exiting students to flow around him, shooting him befuddled looks as they do so. 

None of it touches Dean. Not with the way Arthur is staring at him, hope in his eyes like he’s been waiting on Dean’s response to a promposal.

_Any second now, he’s gonna whip out a cheesy sign._

On unsteady legs, but bolstered by the fact that the campus is teeming with people at this time of day, and that he has Cas entirely on his side, ready to bloody his knuckles on this guy’s nose again, Dean slowly approaches him.

“Hi,” Arthur says, and it’s weirdly deprecating, even though he holds himself with confidence.

“Fuck you,” Dean responds, and means it wholeheartedly. Satisfied that he’s covered it, he goes to shove past the guy, but Arthur catches him by the forearm, his grip surprisingly strong, and opens his mouth to speak.

Dean doesn’t give him a chance, attempting to shake him off with a vigor usually reserved for huge spiders. “Unless you want _me_ to break your fucking nose this time, I’d advise you to take your hand off me.”

Immediately, Arthur lets go, holds his palms up in surrender. His accent is clipped, but with long vowels, “I didn’t come here to upset you. I just wanted to apologize.”

Oh, this oughta be good.

“Yeah?” Dean sneers, but there’s a fine tremor in his hands. He crosses his arms to hide it.

“I didn’t mean to frighten you last year,” he says, and Dean immediately balks. “You’re quite arresting, you see, and I found myself rather infatuated with you.”

Dean’s back is ramrod straight, and right here on the goddamn quad, he wants to kill him. Just stab him in the fucking eye with a rusted ring binder. He’s literally admitting to the shit he did — is continuing to do — and he thinks that all it’s worth is an apology.

“Your blue-eyed friend was quite right to kick the shit out of me,” he says on a small laugh, and Dean’s pulse flutters in his throat. “I wasn’t acting as one should in these types of situations. He’s protective of you, and I understand that.”

The only thing Dean can think to contribute is, “He’s my boyfriend. Not my friend.”

Arthur’s eyebrows go up. “Oh,” he says, “I didn’t know. I thought he was with— Never mind. Though I suppose it does make sense.”

“And that makes it okay?” Dean splutters. “What the hell is wrong with you, man? Why can’t you just leave me alone?”

Arthur looks taken aback by that. Like he can’t quite imagine why Dean’s being so damn venomous, even when Dean’s got a drawerful of his photographs, a trash can full of his gifts.

The guy is fucking delusional. 

“I just wanted to apologize.”

Realizing that the next set of classes is starting, and therefore the quad is rapidly emptying, Dean turns his rage down a notch, leaves it on a simmering boil. “So apologize. Then get the fuck outta here.” He raises his chin defiantly, hoping that the quiver in his voice is only in his imagination. 

Arthur clears his throat, briefly closes his eyes like he’s trying to recall a memorized speech or some shit. “I’m sorry for my behavior last semester. I can see how it would have been frightening or intimidating.”

_And this semester?_

“That it?” Dean asks, so full of false bravado that it’s overspilling. “‘Cause I’ve got a class to get to.”

Like fuck he’ll be going now though.

Seemingly expecting a different reaction — perhaps for his half-baked apology to erase all the crap he’s put Dean through — Arthur frowns, his brow dipping. “Oh, yes, of course. Sorry.”

Shaken, Dean practically runs away. He waits until he’s out of sight before he lets his knees buckle and sinks down onto a bench, limbs like jelly. He’s right on the verge of needing a paper bag to breathe into, when he hears an unfamiliar voice above him. 

“Hey, are you okay?”

He shakes his head, the tremor in his hands traveling to his legs. His heart is pounding so hard that it feels like he’s gonna crack his ribcage. He tries inhaling deeply to calm himself, but his breathing is sharp and shallow; he can’t control it. His vision is darkening around the edges, getting narrower and almost kaleidoscopic. It’s like the whole world is closing in on him. 

“Is there someone I can call?” The person asks, and Dean barely manages to fumble his cell out of his pocket. He’s shaking so hard that the phone nearly falls from his grasp, caught by someone with far more dexterity than Dean at the moment.

“Cas,” Dean answers, wondering if this is what dying feels like. “Cas.”

  
  


***

He doesn’t know how long he sits there on that bench, waiting for his heart to stop, waiting for the tightness in his chest to constrict his lungs and halt his breathing. 

Neither happens.

Some time into Dean’s drawn-out death, Cas appears in his narrowed field of sight, on his knees in front of Dean. Cas has always been the kind of beautiful that inspires awe, and just for a second, it’s _that_ taking Dean’s breath away rather than the panic. 

“Cas.” Dean wants to sob with relief. He paws at his boyfriend, feeling messy and miserable as fuck. “What’s happening to me?”

Cas taps Dean’s knee with his index finger in a steady rhythm. “Count,” he commands with the straightforward competence that Dean loves him for.

So Dean does. He’s up to twenty-seven before Cas answers him. “You’re having a panic attack. I’m not going to ask you what happened just yet, but I _am_ going to ask you if there’s anything you need. A drink? Do you want to go home? If you want to stay here, that’s fine too.”

His mind is beginning to clear, the impending doom not quite so imminent right now, so he says, “I wanna go home.”

“Alright,” Cas agrees with a small, private smile. “Can you stand up? I’ll help if you need me to.”

Dean nods, and with Cas’ assistance, he gets to his feet. He feels stupid and self-conscious when he sees that the person — a dude — is still there, watching them nervously.

“Thank you,” Dean says to him, the back of his neck hot with embarrassment.

“Of course, man,” the guy responds with a tight smile. “My ma has panic attacks, so I get it, yanno? Just glad I could help.”

Cas thanks him again, and they set off home. 

  
  


***

Dean’s thoroughly exhausted by the time they get back to their apartment. It’s like his brain is really making his body pay for the adrenaline and hormones. 

Cas sits him down on their couch, teaches him some breathing exercises to help with the panic: an easy 4-7-8 method that doesn’t help until it does. Then, Cas forces him to drink some tea — _blech_ — and eat a banana, ostensibly for the potassium and carbs, but Dean has his suspicions.

“How d’you know all this shit, Cas?” Dean asks as Cas undresses him, nudges him into bed under the covers. There’s the heavy thunk of Cas’ boots on their hardwood floor, the slither-clink of his belt buckle, and then the bed behind Dean dips with Cas’ weight. He curves himself around Dean, so close that he might as well be inside him.

“There’s a reason I don’t talk to my family much,” Cas answers cryptically, mouth skirting along Dean’s hairline.

“Mm,” Dean responds, already mostly asleep with the reassuring warmth and strength of Cas tucked up against him. “Fuck 'em. ‘s’you an’ me, Cas.”

  
  


***

The next day is a Saturday, and he and Cas barely venture outside at all, content to exist in the pushed-together width of their bed, lazily kissing.

Cas goes out for some coffee and donuts, and when he comes back, he has a solemn expression on his face, and a bouquet of roses in his hand.

“These were on the doorstep,” Cas says. “No card. There is a photo though.”

It’s one of Dean on the bench yesterday, clearly in the throes of something super shitty. 

The fucker took a picture of him at his lowest moment?

On the edge of their bed, Dean drops his head into his hands. Counts to four, holds his breath for seven, breathes out on eight.

  
  


***

“I know what we can do,” Cas murmurs, nosetipping the nape of Dean's neck, kissing Dean’s bare shoulder blade as they lay in bed together a couple of nights before Halloween. It’s the horror aficionado payload, and they’re supposed to be attending Charlie’s scare-a-thon, but truthfully, he doesn’t want to be anywhere but here. 

“Pretty sure we just did it, Cas.” Dean grins, and he can feel Cas’ smile against his skin. 

“You’re not as funny as you think you are.”

“No?” Dean turns around in Cas’ arms to face him, the mattress wobbling as he maneuvers himself with all the grace of a landed fish. He pouts, sticking out his bottom lip. “So you don’t think my best asset is my sense of humor?”

Cas palms at his bare ass. “Funnily enough, no.”

Dean pretends to be affronted, but he leans right into the kiss that Cas initiates. It’s soft and sweet in a way they very rarely are. It has him biting back the urge to blurt out something he’s been wanting to say for a long time. Words that feel like too much and not enough to encompass everything that Cas means to him.

Cas rests his forehead against Dean’s, his warm breath ghosting over Dean’s mouth. “It’s just you and me, Dean. Nobody else.”

_Fuck._

Dean never figured his love for that terrible Wahlberg movie would be used this effectively against him.

“Yeah,” Dean agrees, going cross-eyed and orgasm-wobbly as he tries to look at his boyfriend from this close. “You and me, Cas.”

“I love you,” Cas tells him, heartfelt and soul-deep, and Dean swears that time stands still for an entire second. Nothing huge in the grand scheme of things, but Dean sees his life flash in front of his eyes, and it’s a lifetime with Cas. 

“I love you too,” Dean admits, like it’s his dirtiest secret, and maybe it is. He’s never loved anyone before. Not outside of his immediate family anyways.

“I know what we can do,” Cas says again, and Dean pulls back a little, so he can give this his undivided attention. He’s now suspecting that the sweet nothings were a precursor to something kinky. Dean’s game for pretty much anything where Cas is concerned. 

“Yeah?”

“We could kill him. Ketch.” Cas says, and he’s deadly serious.

 _Okay, maybe not_ that _kinky._

“Woah,” Dean says, and he knows that the bright-burst of shock is showing on his face. He was expecting Cas to suggest sounding or watersports or something. Not _murder_. “That your official legal advice? ‘Cause if so, you’re probably not gonna make it as a criminal lawyer.”

Cas is steady in his response, trampling right over Dean’s flippancy. “I mean it. He’s never going to leave you alone. Do you want to spend the rest of your life looking over your shoulder?”

Obviously not. 

And sure, yeah, Dean’s entertained a few fantasies where his stalker gets Final Destinationed — impaled on a pick-ax or electrocuted in the shower — but actually _doing_ it? 

“Sleep on it,” Cas tells him, pressing a kiss to his forehead, casual, like they’re picking out new wallpaper, rather than discussing whether or not to end a man’s life.

  
  


***

Dean sleeps on it. For several nights. 

Though, there’s not really much sleeping, and a lot of staring blankly into the middle distance as he considers whether he’d be cool with murder.

It’s one thing to receive a sinister kind of catharsis from a brutal (and well-deserved) beating, but to actually kill the guy feels like a vindictive step too far. 

Doesn’t it?

Sometimes it does, sometimes it doesn’t.

Sometimes, it feels like turnabout is fair play. Like if the fucker can’t handle the retaliation, then maybe he shouldn’t have fucked with Dean (and Cas by proxy) in the first place.

Dean’s main worry vacillates between the morality of taking a life and how the fuck they’re supposed to avoid getting caught. Making a whole person disappear is a tricky business. 

He kinda-sorta wants to ask Cas what his plan is, kinda-sorta doesn’t. He’s scared of the answer. It’s clearly something Cas had been mulling over for a while, while Dean had kept his own homicidal thoughts firmly in the realm of fantasy. 

_Cas is the expert at making fantasies a reality though._

Which leads Dean down the rabbit hole of wondering if this is some kind of Wishmaster shit. Is he gonna wake up some day, and their perfect little existence is gonna turn out to be an excuse for Cas — an ancient genie — to capture Dean’s soul so he can set the other genies free and enslave all humans?

_God, that movie was shitty._

The point is, immortal evil genie or not, Dean likes that Cas is proactive about this shit. Rather than waiting for disaster to come to him, he goes to the disaster, meets it head-on with a grit and determination that Dean can’t help but admire.

Still. 

There has to be another solution.

There isn’t, but there _has_ to be. 

***

The clincher comes a couple of days before winter finals. 

It’s like receiving revelation from God himself, because the timing couldn’t be more perfect. Dean sees Arthur — or Ketch, as Cas has taken to calling him in order to depersonalize him, making it easier for Dean to see him as an obstacle to his happiness, rather than as a human being — on campus, and when he smiles in Dean’s direction like they could be friends, Dean turns away, disgusted and abruptly determined.

The dude clearly has a death wish, and he’s in luck, ‘cause Cas is the Wishmaster. 

  
  


***

Later that night, when he’s stretched open around three of Cas’ fingers, Dean moans out, “Yeah, okay, Cas. Let’s do it. Let’s kill him.”

Cas fucks him long and hard, hands gripping at Dean’s hips and thighs, hauling him back onto his dick with a possessive strength that has Dean wishing they could kill the bastard more than once.

  
  


***

The thing with killing someone is that it takes precision and timing. Two things Dean is theoretically good at, but in practice and murder? Eh, not so much.

He just doesn’t have the patience for all this mastermind shit: coming up with contingency after contingency, trying to plot out every move that could possibly be made. It’s certainly something Cas is a lot better at, so Dean leaves the details to him. After all, it’s where the devil resides, and Cas is a man possessed after that latest attempt by Ketch to approach Dean on the quad. 

It’s empowering, knowing that very soon, Arthur Ketch will be no more — relegated to a smear on the great California scenery. 

“Cas, where’d you get the gun?” 

His boyfriend is sitting on their bed, casually cleaning what looks like a .22. He looks up at Dean, blinking baby-blue eyes, like he’s been caught with his hand in a cookie jar, rather than sitting there plotting a murder.

It turns Dean’s crank like nothing else. 

“Do you really want to know?” 

And no, actually. No, Dean really doesn’t. 

The less he knows about this endeavor, the better. That way, when the court-appointed shrink tries to decide whether he’s an insanity case or not, he can say with complete honesty that he did it for love, your honor. Simply went along with it, ‘cause, well, just look at him with a gun in his hand and Dean’s best interests in his heart, isn’t he just the prettiest thing ever?

***

According to Cas, Ketch goes on a run up in the fire trails every morning. He leaves his apartment (apparently he also decided not to stay in the dorms for his junior year) at around seven and runs for an hour, then returns for a shower and a change of clothes in time for his early-morning lectures.

Exam schedules have shot most people’s routines to shit, but not Ketch’s. Dude has been habitually running his couple of miles every day this week, and now that he’s done with his finals, it’s time for Cas and Dean to end him before he jumps on a plane back to the UK for winter break.

Waiting in the car, jittery with nerves and excitement, Dean can’t stop his knee from bouncing, can’t stop his thoughts from racing. “I’m pretty impressed with your sleuthing, Cas. Like, maybe you should forgo the lawyer stuff and become a private detective or some shit.”

Imagining Cas as a Sam-Spade-Eliot-Ness-esque character is doing wonders for Dean’s anxiety. They could get him a charcoal suit, a black wool overcoat, a navy tie, a 40s style fedora... Damn, he’d look _good_.

Dean taps his fingers on the steering wheel in time with his bouncing leg, tries to focus on _that_ image of Cas in his head, instead of the reality of him sitting in the passenger seat with a gun on his thigh.

He’d be hard-pressed to decide which is hotter, but one is definitely happening, and it’s fucking with his head in the best-worst possible way.

They’re gonna murder Ketch. It’s gonna be justified. Dean’s sick of looking over his shoulder, of being scared of his own damn shadow, wondering what the asshole has planned out next. 

All they have is a thinly-veiled confession and a load of fucking flowers and photos. No threats, no concrete evidence, nothing.

It might not be enough to convict a man, but it’s certainly enough to kill him.

Cas checks the dashboard clock. “I think it’s time.”

Dean’s dry throat clicks when he swallows. “Uh, okay.”

They unfold themselves from the car, being quiet with the doors, and put their plan into action.

  
  


***

The upper fire trail begins with a steep climb. It’s shaded by trees, and comparatively quiet this time of year and day. 

Dean’s thankful that Cas gave them enough time to get to their positions before Ketch turned up. Dean all out-of-breath and sweaty probably ain’t all that attractive. 

He takes up his position on the trail, whilst Cas hides in the trees with a small stash of kidnap-murder supplies.

Dean waits. Nervous as fuck, but excited too. He can’t believe they’re actually going to do this. It’s irreparable, there’s no coming back from this; there’ll forever be a black mark on Dean’s soul. Whether he’s the one who pulls the trigger or not, he’s just as guilty as Cas.

Dean inhales sharply when he catches sight of Ketch in his periphery, jogging toward him. Crouched in the middle of the path on the narrow stretch of trail, pretending to tie his shoelace, Dean studiously focuses on making himself look as distracting as possible, which ain’t all that difficult in the criminally tight running shorts Cas persuaded him to wear.

As predicted, Ketch slows down and then stops completely when he comes upon Dean. 

Yeah, Dean’s got an ass worth dying for. (And worth killing for).

“Morning,” Ketch calls cheerfully. “Are you alright down there?”

_Showtime._

Dean wipes his sweaty palms on the thighs of the borrowed shorts as he pushes to his feet. “Uh, hi. Yeah. I’m okay.”

Ketch blinks back his surprise. “Dean?”

“Hi,” he says again, trying to quell the knee-jerk panic by leaning into the knowledge that Cas is barely fifteen feet away from them.

He’s not gonna let anything happen. 

Neither is Dean, for that matter. ‘Cause it’s not like he can’t hold his own in a fight; it’s just that he hasn’t had to in a while. 

“What are you doing here?” Ketch asks, barely breathless and entirely surprised. “I didn’t know you ran?”

Not the best stalker then, but they already knew that.

Dean’s shrug is meant to be nonchalant, but he’s sure that it comes across self-conscious and skittish instead.

It doesn’t seem to deter Ketch though. He smiles with his eyes, and it’s entirely too calculated for Dean. Like he knows something that Dean doesn’t.

Dean licks his dry lips, glances up and down the trail to make sure there’s nobody in sight. Then he says loudly — too loudly to simply be a conversation between the two of them — “I thought I’d, y’know, give it a try. Get in shape and all that.”

At their prearranged signal phrase, Cas emerges from the trees, unseen by Ketch. 

Ketch’s eyes roam down Dean’s body like a physical caress, and bile burns at the back of Dean’s throat. “You’re in perfect shape, Dean.”

_Ugh._

Cas is slowly creeping up, eyes dark and intent, predatory as hell, and Dean shivers all the way to his dick.

_Fuck._

“Yeah?” Dean asks Ketch, making sure to keep the guy’s attention all on him. “Good to know.”

Right there, Cas presses the gun into Ketch’s lower back, all daylight robbery, and something akin to triumph filters through Dean.

_Gotcha, fucker._

“Don’t move,” Cas growls, voice dipping into the seventh circle of hell. Obediently, Ketch goes heart-stoppingly still, his eyes unnaturally wide and on Dean. Cas tosses Dean the bag containing their murder kit, and Dean digs into it for a pillowcase, which he jams over Ketch’s head. Then, he loops a short length of rope around Ketch’s neck to keep the pillowcase in place, pulling it tight, relishing the squeak of pain their captive lets out. 

It’s good to be the hunter instead of the hunted for a change. 

Grabbing Ketch’s left hand, Dean snaps a metal cuff around his wrist. It’s then that Ketch begins to realize this isn’t about to end well for him and he’s gonna lose nothing by fighting. He tries to twist away from them both, yanking his right arm out of Dean’s grip. “Get off me!”

Cas could shoot him here and now. _Could_ , but he doesn’t. Instead, he catches Ketch’s arm and twists it so hard that Ketch cries out in pain. Cas shoves the arm up behind Ketch’s back, holding it there for Dean to snap the other cuff around his right wrist. 

“I’m in perfect shape, huh?” Dean taunts, feeling vicious and victorious, punching the side of Ketch’s head through the pillowcase. “Fuck you!”

“Let’s go,” Cas orders Ketch. “Walk.”

They march him off the trail and into the woods, walking on a downward slope. Dean tugs on the rope around Ketch’s neck, just for sadistic funsies, causing the guy to lose his footing. Hands cuffed behind his back, he can’t catch himself, and so he slams chest first into the ground, breath whooshing out of him. Cas kicks at Ketch with the sole of his size twelves, sending him tumbling down the slope. Ketch yelps in pain as bushes and rocks scrape his skin. Cas and Dean follow him.

With a couple more _nudges_ in the right direction, Ketch flops into the shallow grave Dean and Cas dug earlier this morning. Dean peers in, stares down at his-stalker-turned-victim. Ketch’s leg is twisted at a funny angle, and the pillowcase puffs out and sinks as he fights for breath. His chest heaves. His arms and legs are blotchy with red smudges that would turn into bruises if he was gonna live long enough. His skin is scratched, scuffed, gouged, ridged with pale welts, even tinted in places with grass stains. His blue running shorts hang low and crooked below his hips, and Dean can’t help but feel a sick sense of poetic justice for the shower incident. 

Riding the high of invincibility and feeling mean as hell, Dean drops down onto his haunches and reaches toward Ketch. He hooks a forefinger into the waistband of Ketch’s shorts, draws it back like a sling-shot and lets go. The elastic snaps.

Ketch flinches and blurts out, “What the hell do you want from me?”

“Retribution,” Cas answers, and really, he’s missing his calling in life by being a lawyer instead of a badass vigilante. His eyes are wild and glassy, the way they get when he’s balls deep inside Dean, and yeah, maybe Cas is a psychopath, but Dean’s never been more in love with him, so, y’know, the psychosis is clearly a shared one.

There’s nothing fancy about the way Cas shoots Ketch in the forehead, perfunctory and necessary, the small caliber gun kicking in his hand and making a punch of sound that gets lost in the trees. 

Ketch is deathly still — fitting, ‘cause he’s fucking dead — but there’s something kinda peaceful about it. Dean likes to imagine his soul is leaving his body through the bullet wound.

In reality, he knows that it’s a dirty, painful death. 

Dean reaches for the small can of gasoline from their murder kit. Pours it all over the body, chucks the empty in, and sets it alight using a book of matches that Cas hands to him. Then, he gathers up all the photos taken of him over the last eight months and tosses the stack onto the fire.

It’s consecrated ground now, even though Dean was unholy from the start. 

The two of them stand there, opposite one another, nothing but hellfire between them as Ketch burns, crackles and pops, chestnuts roasting. Dean stares at Cas, the sharp angles of his face, the exotic, shadowed sweep of his cheekbone, highlighted in ethereal orange. Cas returns Dean’s stare with something dark and intense and dangerous, and a crazy part of Dean wants to stick Ketch’s head on a fucking spike as a warning to anyone else who’d dare cross him, _them_. 

Dean’s gaze drops, inevitably drawn downward to where Cas’ hard dick is so visible through the thin material of his running leggings that Dean could probably count the veins. 

Dean's is the same. Practically a divining rod for Cas and this dark thing between them that edges out all rationality.

_Fuck._

In the fathomless, death-defiant way Cas stares at him, Dean can see his boyfriend shoving him face-first down into the crinkle-crunch of leaves. Can feel Cas impaling him, balls to ass, on the first drive in and making Dean scream, clawing at forest soil and grave dirt, as Cas ruthlessly fucks him with just the spit on his dick next to the open-casket funeral of the guy they just killed. 

He can hear it, feel it, taste it, and when he checks, there’s a thin line of dirt under his fingernails, from where he could’ve scrabbled at the earth, but it’s nothing more than a secret kept between the blue and green of their eyes. A dream not made reality except in their shared imagination.

Dean will never tell a soul that he’s kinda disappointed by that.

  
  


***

After they replace the dirt on Ketch’s cremated remains, Dean’s exhausted; sleepy with the slump in adrenaline, tempted to crash right there, surrounded by trees and death, like a sinister Snow White. 

Cas, though, Cas won’t let him. Tells him that sleeping on a slope is next to impossible, laughs at Dean’s grumbled, “But I wanted to make like Mary Shelley and sleep on a grave.”

It’s fucked in the head, but so are they. 

***

On the way home, Cas pushes Charlie's tape into the deck. 

Dean’s insides are black and blue, but his charred heart beats for Cas and this song. What it’ll always mean for them. Even decades from now. Dean can’t — doesn’t want to —imagine a future without Cas in it. They’re murder-married now; drawn and bound together by blood and death.

He can’t wait for their future. He already knows that it’s gonna be amazing.

_'...I love a man from California, he's the prettiest thing, we got the same disorder. The way you feel is okay, it's never gonna change anyway.’_


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is late. I literally forgot how to write. Still not convinced I’ve regained the ability, ‘cause this chapter has been a nightmare, but I didn’t wanna keep you waiting any longer. There’s a possibility the next chapter might be a week late too; it all depends on my brain and 15x20 (#clownnosefirmlyinplace).

**Present Day, The Fucking Rainforest**

Getting Cas back to the hotel without them receiving the wettest display of ‘FUCK YOU’ that Mother Nature has to offer is absolutely impossible. The rain soaks them right through their clothes to the bone, like the fabric and their skin are just formalities. It would be refreshing, after the caged-in heat they’ve been experiencing all night, but Dean’s supporting the bulk of Cas’ weight, the rainwater turning lukewarm where their torsos are pressed tightly together, so instead, it’s just clammy and uncomfortable.

 _‘Clammy and uncomfortable’_ could sum up this entire experience, really. As well as ‘bugfuck crazy’. ‘Cause, what the hell was Garth thinking, dragging them all up here? _Was_ he thinking beyond the urge to get his dick wet? Sure, he claims that he and Meg are just friends, but would Bess really kick him out over a simple misunderstanding? Bess is a kind, patient, sweetheart, who always seems to give Garth the benefit of the doubt. There has to be more to the Meg story than Garth’s letting on, ‘cause that woman is an entire plane-of-unstable-convicts’ worth of trouble.

It’s not even Dean’s jealousy talking. Well, mostly not. ‘Cause, well, that would be dumb after all these years, wouldn’t it? It’s not his business who Cas is friends with, but Meg… that bitch has always been a pathological pain-in-the-ass. Dean might be fourteen years older and (theoretically) wiser than his college sophomore counterpart, but whenever her name is mentioned, he regresses to that fucking dorm room where he walked in on her sucking face with the love of his life.

Nobody holds a grudge like Dean Winchester. He embraces them, takes them to dinner, whispers sweet nothings in their ear late at night when it’s just him and them.

He’s got a hitlist, and sometimes, just sometimes, he checks it twice. Meg’s been at the top for years, circled in red pen. 

Not just ‘cause of the sucking face thing, though that was when it started. 

So if all of _this_ is Meg – and Dean wouldn’t be at all surprised if it _is_ her behind this shit; playing a prank on them for kicks – then she should be prepared for Dean to throttle her until her eyes pop outta her stupid head. 

Her _and_ Benny. The pair of them deserve it. 

Dean’ll do it too. He’s already making murder spree plans, brought about by the way Cas makes these little agonized noises every time his (suspected broken) ankle is jostled. 

Cas is hurt, and in return, people _get_ hurt. It’s a simple enough equation: Cas+hurt=deathbyWinchester.

Dean's zero-to-life-in-prison temper hasn't required much control over the past decade; there's rarely been anything he's cared enough about to really open 'er up. But this situation is certainly forcing him to get reacquainted with the red-hot core of himself. 

Rationality and logic are easy to maintain at a distance, but in close quarters with his (and by extension, Cas') darkness, it's harder to find the way to reason. A scared and angry Dean around Cas equals tunnel vision and a drive to keep him safe, no matter the cost. 

This is what Dean's spent every annual meetup since his and Cas' split dreading. Falling back into old holding patterns and being unable to control the person he was when he and Cas were together. That reckless, sociopathic dumbass. He’s cultivated himself, cut it back, caged that part of himself, and now? It’s right there, tucked away in his back pocket, an extra weapon to be wielded when the time comes.

As they hobble across the parking lot, Dean can barely see through the blurry droplets of rain that cling to his eyelashes. He just has to hope that the stalker is giving it a rest for a bit, ‘cause he’s absolutely in no mood for _that_ fuckery right now.

Charlie stops on the way and grabs a couple of their duffels out of the car. The rest of their water-damaged stuff is back in the clearing and there’s not a lot of point in retrieving it (aside from their precious whiskey, ‘cause it’s never felt more important to drink their problems away), but they’re gonna need patch-up supplies and dry clothes, plus some food and water.

At the foot of the porch, Dean stops, waiting for one of the others to go first and check the lobby for homicidal maniacs. Benny obliges, trudging up the stairs, all Spongebob Suckerpunch-pants in his squeaky, water-logged shoes, followed closely by Charlie with her hair matted flat to her scalp. 

They look as miserable as Dean feels, and if they survive this, Dean’s making sure that Garth never picks where they go again. 

Receiving the ‘it’s safe’ caw from Charlie, Dean begins the struggle up the porch steps with Cas. Nobody requests to help; already knowing that nobody’s hands belong on Cas but Dean’s. Once inside, the two of them cross the foyer, dripping as they go. They pause just outside the doorway of the dining room, where the fire is still lit from earlier, left to burn in their haste to get the fuck outta here.

“Only you can prevent forest fires,” Dean mutters, and Cas makes an amused little noise that goes some way to soothe the jangle of Dean’s nerves.

If Cas is pretending not to laugh at Dean’s jokes, then he’s gonna be okay. 

The others are busy rooting through the retrieved luggage, deciding which clothes to use as a makeshift nest for Cas, and which ones are wearable.

Pausing her search, Charlie holds up a plaid trapper hat. “Do I even wanna know, Garth?”

Garth grins lopsidedly. But Dean doesn’t hear his answer, ‘cause Cas is saying, “I think I’m going to need help getting out of these wet clothes.”

Dean smiles his first genuine smile since Cas went missing. “Your come-ons are getting less and less subtle, Cas.”

The look Cas gives him is all fire and mischief. “Less subtle than me slamming you up against a wall in a filthy bathroom?”

Something catches in Dean’s chest, the memory so bright and vivid.

“Point,” Dean concedes, voice strangled by the stiffness in his throat and jeans. He clears his throat shakily, says, “Alright. Where are we gonna do this?”

Another penetrative look. One that cuts right through the suddenly thick atmosphere.

Dean glances sideways at Cas, too afraid to meet that wild, raw-edged gaze head-on. Instead, he lets the thread of worry that’s in danger of unraveling if they don’t get Cas fixed up soon be his guide. Like Theseus working his way out of the Minotaur’s maze. “I’m glad you’ve perked up and all, but my primary concern is you surviving this. Then we can talk about all the ways we’re gonna smush our genitals together. One thing at a time.”

“So romantic,” Cas deadpans. Sassy, even when he’s in pain. Dean admires that level of dedication to sarcasm. “Alright,” Cas glances around, his head lolling back a little too easily for Dean’s liking, and a flicker of worry ignites in his chest. “The registration desk? Take me behind there. It’s private enough, but we should still be able to hear the others in case of trouble.”

Decision made, Dean steers them over to and around the desk. Together, they manage to get Cas comfortably(ish) bearing his weight against it, before Dean scampers back to the dining room for fresh clothes and something to clean Cas’ wounds. 

Hurrying toward the others, he says, “Hey, Garth. Pass me some clothes for Cas. Mine or his, doesn’t matter.”

He wants Cas in his clothes like it’s the most natural thing in the world, but he’s not gonna tell _them_ that. Feigned indifference raises fewer questions.

Whilst Garth scrambles to assist, Dean searches for something to splint Cas’ ankle. Seeing whip-skinny branches reaching in through a shattered window, Dean snaps one off, using his multi-tool to strip it down, before repeating the same with a second one.

Garth appears at his side with some clothes, passes them straight to Dean. “Thanks, man,” Dean says, genuinely grateful. “You know where a couple of my flannels are?”

“Yeah,” Garth ducks down and comes up with the two spare Dean brought with him. 

“Thanks,” Dean says again. Then, “Hey Garth, you’re gonna have to tell us all about Meg and this place, you know that, right?”

“Nothing to tell,” Garth says as Charlie plonks an unopened bottle of water as well as the half-empty whiskey bottle on top of the pile.

“You’ll be needing both,” she tells him with a small smile, and the warm rush of affection he experiences goes some way to melting his cool, calm exterior.

Which _cannot_ happen – he needs to not fall apart here – so he thanks them once more, and rushes back to Cas. 

He’s still in the same position as before, weight braced against the desk, face pinched in pain.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean says as he steps in close, dumping his armfuls of makeshift medical supplies on the surface of the desk, next to Cas’ hip. 

“I see you came well prepared,” Cas half-jokes with a raised eyebrow when Dean begins ripping up one of his flannels into long strips. Despite his good humor, Cas is drawn and pale, clearly in pain, and Dean shoves his worry right down alongside his anger, fear, and all of the other dumbass emotions that are no use right now. 

“You know me,” Dean grins, and this is easy. This flirting. He can do this. 

“I do,” Cas responds and it’s super-fucking-intense, a soulfuck as he stares Dean down with pointed eyelashes, the two of them still dripping everything everywhere. 

_So much for no emotions._

Dean clears his throat to stop his thoughts wandering, and instead plucks his fingers at the hem of Cas’ heavy shirt. “At least the rain managed to get rid of the blood. This shirt might actually be salvageable.”

“Good. It’s my favorite shirt.”

 _Jesus, Cas._

Dean needs to focus and not let things devolve. Which is easier said than done when all he wants to do is bury his face in the shiny-wet hollow of Cas’ throat and just breathe him in until this nightmare is over. 

Instead, he says, “Arms up as high as you can, let’s get this off.”

Cas’ small smile is pure mischief, but he does as he’s told, only wincing a little. 

The material of his shirt is cold and clammy and sticks to Cas’ skin as Dean tugs at it, revealing Cas’ tanned torso inch by soggy inch. If this was literally any other time, Dean would be looking his fill, mapping out the well-defined musculature of Cas’ chest and stomach with his eyes and then his tongue. As it is, Dean’s staring for entirely different reasons. 

“Shit,” Dean breathes, tossing the wet shirt so that it lands with a water-logged thwap in front of the desk. Cas is covered in abrasions and scratches; in some places, there are pink-puffy, oozing gouges, and with the help of a strategically placed flashlight in a cubbyhole-slash-mail-slot behind him, Dean can see that there’s already a mottle of bruises beginning to form across Cas’ ribcage. 

_Holy fuck, Benny really did a number on him._

A lot of the wounds _seem_ superficial, but Cas was covered in blood when they found him, so his injuries must be deeper than they look. Dean makes sure to methodically go over every single one, using one of the flannel strips drenched in whiskey to clean the mess of scrapes and cuts on previously flawless skin. Done with them, Dean turns his attention to Cas’ head wound. 

Cas hisses when Dean presses the soaked strip to Cas’ hairline, above his left eye.

“Don’t be a wuss,” Dean tells him, throat thick, and fighting the urge to go in there and beat the fuck outta Benny, sore knuckles from tree-fighting be damned. 

_How dare he do this to Cas?_

“Your bedside manner is terrible, Nurse Ratched.”

Dean huffs a quiet laugh. “I’m just pissed off. I can’t believe Benny would do something like this. What the fuck is his problem?”

Cas sighs, breath warm over Dean’s chin. “I have a confession to make.”

“Yeah?” Satisfied that he’s cleaned Cas’ head injury enough for now, Dean moves on to the huge mess on Cas’ arm, the one that’s still bleeding sluggish and goopy. Rather than screwing around with a strip of flannel, Dean just grabs the whiskey bottle and pours half of the remaining third straight onto Cas’ arm. 

Through the pained grit of his teeth and glaring daggers at him, Cas replies. “I knew about his feelings for you. All the way back in college.”

_Huh._

Dean rips a larger chunk of one of his flannels, and wraps it around Cas’ arm a couple of times, tying it as tight as he dares. It doesn’t look like a nicked artery as far as Dean can tell, so the makeshift bandage should be fine for now. 

It’s Cas’ ankle that Dean’s most worried about. 

“Gonna have to take your pants off now.”

“Well, that was not the reaction I was expecting.”

Dean sighs, bone-tired and emotionally compromised. Tonight has felt like the four years of their relationship compressed together; the stalking, the photos, the angsty possessive sex, the doubt and confusion. It’s a lot. “What do you want me to say, Cas? That I’m pissed you all kept it from me? I feel like there are more important things to worry about.” He drops to his knees in front of Cas for the second time tonight and he doesn’t miss Cas’ sharp intake of breath. Dean looks up at him, striving not to let the connotations of their position get the better of them. There’s a first time for everything, after all. “Once we get you outta here safe and sound, then we can argue all we want.”

It’s a promise he intends to keep. Even if the thought of arguing with Cas is one compressed memory too far.

Getting to work on Cas’ jeans, Dean’s cold, clammy fingers fumble with the button. He aims for efficiency as he drags down the zipper and pushes the heavy material down around Cas’ thighs to his knees. 

Dean can see the soft bulge of Cas’ cock in his clinging underwear and he wants nothing more than to lean forward and repeat their earlier encounter. He doesn’t, obviously, ‘cause whilst they’ve done this exact thing in less-than-ideal places, somehow when Cas is injured and there’s a maniac loose in a deserted hotel, it feels perhaps just a little _too_ irresponsible and dumb. Even for him. 

Plus, the others are just behind them in the dining room, talking in hushed tones. 

Probably about Dean and Cas. 

It’s just like the old times. The two of them on the (admittedly, self-imposed) outside, whilst the others scheme and plot and talk shit.

_Don’t go there. Just focus._

Yeah.

Figuring the logistics of doing this without hurting Cas’ ankle more is gonna be tricky. His boots should come off without hopefully doing too much damage, but with the way Cas is standing up, Dean’s not gonna be able to get his jeans off over his wrecked ankle. 

Shit. 

“You’ll have to sit on the desk,” Dean tells him. “Bare-assed or in your damp underwear. Dealer’s choice.” 

Cas pulls a face. “I’ll leave my underwear on.”

“Good choice,” Dean says. “Need a hand?”

Cas’ hued eyes glitter in the low light and Dean’s pulse quickens, Cas’ ability to fluster him not having diminished with the years. “You’re a bastard, you know that, right?”

“Mm,” Cas agrees, pushing off the floor with his good foot and the heels of his palms. “ _Shit_.”

Dean reaches out to steady him, his bare hand on Cas’ cool thigh. “You good?”

Pink bottom lip pulled between the pearly white of his teeth, Cas nods. He’s perched on the edge of the desk, his feet a few inches off the ground. Shirtless and with his pants bunched around his knees, damp hair curling around his ears, high flush of pink across his cheeks, Dean wonders how he ever survived a day away from him. 

Dean swallows hard, his dry throat clicking audibly in the stilted, anticipatory silence. “Gonna pull these off the rest of the way now, along with your boots, okay?”

Cas braces himself, palms flat behind him on the desk. “Yeah.” Even so, he gasps in pain as his boot comes off over the injured ankle, followed by his jeans. 

In this light, Dean can’t really see much of anything. It doesn’t look particularly swollen or bruised above the line of his sock. At least there are no bones sticking out at odd angles, but Dean’s no medical expert; the damage could be internal, like a torn ligament or something. “Want me to leave your socks on?”

Cas nods again. 

Dean sets to work padding the injured appendage with underpants, socks, and the rest of his flannel. He unbuckles his belt and pulls it out through the loops. Then he retrieves the two branches and positions them on Cas’ leg, using his belt to tie everything together. 

“It ain’t pretty,” Dean grunts, leaning back to admire his bulky handiwork. “But it should hold until we get help.”

“Thank you,” Cas says, reaching up for the clothes on the desk. He hands Dean down a pair of sweatpants, his fingers lingering on the sore craters of split skin across Dean’s knuckles. “We should patch you up too.”

Dean makes a noncommittal noise as he gathers up the fabric, pulling the elastic ankle taut to allow Cas to slip his foot inside without it touching. He gently releases it high up the calf so as not to hurt Cas, the back of his hand brushing against the bare skin there. He helps Cas and his other foot into the sweats, and then draws them up Cas’ legs, handing them off to him once they’re at his knees.

“Need help getting off?” Dean asks, meaning the desk, but of course, Cas’ mouth tilts in a devious smirk. 

“Are you offering?”

“Always,” Dean quips and it’s not entirely a joke, but this easy, cheesy flirting seems to be distracting Cas (and Dean), so he’s more than willing to roll with it. 

“Please,” Cas says, and with a minimum amount of struggle, they get Cas back on his good foot, allowing him to pull the sweats up the rest of the way. “I meant what I said earlier,” he adds, quietly, his voice a rough scrape. Like this is costing him, but he’s happy to pay the price. “I missed you.”

 _‘Me too, Cas. God, so fucking much,’_ is how Dean should respond in the face of such weighted honesty. But instead, he hurriedly shoves Cas’ shirt at him. “I’m just gonna…err, grab some clothes for myself. Be right back.”

He’s outta there Road Runner fast, leaving Cas alone again. 

_Smooth._

In the dining room, the others — all freshly dressed and huddled around in a little pow-wow — stop talking as soon as Dean gets close enough to hear. 

It’s like walking in on some jocks in high school, when you’re a nerdy science kid or something. It rubs Dean the wrong way instantly, raises his hackles, reminds him just how _other_ he and Cas are.

How it really is just the two of them against the world.

He’s tempted to say something flippant as he crouches down to retrieve some clothes from his duffel, something bitchy and petty and truly high school like, ‘No, no, don’t stop talking about me on my account’, but he doesn’t. 

Instead, he silently collects his clothes and returns to Cas. 

Who’s half-bent over like Dean first found him in the forest, breath sticky in his lungs.

Panic spiking, Dean rushes to Cas’ side, hands at the ready to check for any injuries he may have missed. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Cas grinds out, straightening himself up with a grimace. “Just sore. And more than a little annoyed.”

_You and me both, Cas._

“I hear ya,” Dean says, glaring past Cas’ shoulder at the others in the dining room. “They’re talking about us.”

“Let them,” Cas says reasonably, fingers flirting with the hem of Dean’s shirt. “Now it’s your turn to be mostly naked in a haunted hotel.”

Dean’s attention snaps to Cas. “You think we don’t have enough problems, now this place has literally gotta be haunted too? Don’t tempt fate, man.”

Cas doesn’t just roll his eyes, he practically rolls his whole body. “Fate? You make your own fate, Dean. You should know that better than anybody.”

Yeah. Yeah, he does.

***

Dressed, splinted, and back with the others in the dining room, Dean helps Cas down onto the nest of clothes they’ve made for him. 

“So, we’ve been talking,” Charlie says in a _‘you’re not gonna like this’_ voice. “About getting help.”

Dean waits to hear what he’s gonna be saying HELL NAW to next. They’re not splitting up again. Every time they’ve gone their separate ways, something bad has happened.

Which is why when Charlie says, “I think we should split up,” Dean very nearly drops Cas onto the lumpy blanket of haphazardly laid clothes. 

“I think you need your fuckin’ head examined,” Dean tells her, lowering Cas as gently as he can. Finally, he’s on the nest, with a hiss and a wince, but he’s hopefully semi-comfortable, so Dean can turn the full force of his _‘no, that ain’t happening, you fucking lunatic’_ glare onto Charlie.

She shrugs in response. “I’m not seeing another alternative.”

“Me either,” Garth says, producing another bag of Cheetos from his duffel.

_Is that all he packed?_

“I agree with them,” Benny adds, eyeing Dean warily. 

“You,” Dean shoves his finger in Benny’s face, on the brink of something calamitous and destructive. “You lost your right to vote when you did this–” he points behind himself roughly to where Cas is, “–to Cas, alright? So I don’t wanna hear anything that comes outta your mouth.”

Benny grinds his teeth, but nods jerkily. 

Satisfied that he’s made his point, Dean turns to the other two. “Now. I don’t know how to make it clear to you, that us splitting up? Terrible idea. But, I am curious about your arguments for why we should get ourselves picked off and murdered one by one, so please, share them.”

“Who died and made you king?” Garth snarks, all 90s teenage movie sass, and okay, that’s it, Dean’s had enough.

“Nobody, Garth,” Dean answers tightly, “but out of all of us, I’m the only one with even a modicum of survival savvy, so maybe, just maybe, you could all start listening to my fucking advice!” 

“Alright,” Charlie smoothly intervenes. “What’s your advice then? What would the great Dean Winchester do, huh?”

It’s a good question. And one Dean’s not really considered. He’s been too busy trying to come up with solutions to problems directly in front of them, rather than considering the end game. 

Dean rubs at his eyes, squeezes the bridge of his nose. Aiming for calm he says, “I would strongly advise against splitting up. In a normal survival situation, it’s not great, but in our current one? When there’s a crazy person around here waiting to do fuck knows what to us, I honestly can’t see how it would be beneficial. We’ve just gotta wait it out until morning.”

“Then what?” Benny asks. “We go down the mountain? Cas not being able to walk ain’t gonna change with the sunrise, so we’re gonna have to split up then anyways. And even if it’s not dark, the chances are, our stalker is still gonna be here.”

_Fuck._

Dean realllllllly hates to admit it, but Benny’s right. 

“And what happens if it takes longer than you think?” Garth says, “And we wait until morning to go, but don’t get back before it gets dark again? That’s potentially another night we’ve gotta stay here.”

“Dean,” Cas says from behind him. “They’re right. The last thing we want is to stay another night here, and what difference is waiting for the daylight going to make?”

“It’ll make it safer for a start,” Dean responds, rounding off the rough edges of his tone, just for Cas. “Not only ‘cause we’ll actually be able to see where we’re going — so less chance of injury or getting lost — but also ‘cause it’s less likely we’ll be ambushed in broad daylight.”

“What about the river?” Charlie suggests, dragging Dean’s focus back to her. “We can follow it down the mountain, that’s what you said, right?” At Dean’s barely perceptible nod, she continues, “So, how about two of us go? It makes an ambush less likely to succeed if those who go for help double up and stick together. The other two stay with Cas and the poker.”

Dean already knows where this is headed, and he really doesn’t like it.

“You guys are gonna suggest that Benny and I go, right? And you two stay with Cas?”

Charlie looks apologetic, but her nod is determined. “I’m not exactly stoked about having to stay here — especially without any WiFi — but I think it would be better for you to have Benny, ‘cause he’s much stronger and probably more of a help if you get stuck under a boulder or something.”

He gets what she’s doing: trying to find a solution that separates Benny from Cas. 

Which is all well and good, but the idea of Dean leaving Cas right now?

Yeah, not happening. 

“I’m staying here with Cas,” Dean says. “Benny and Garth can go.”

Garth, who’s been shoveling Cheetos into his mouth, sitting cross-legged next to Cas and getting orange dust all over Charlie’s faded D&D t-shirt that he’s wearing, stops instantly. Like someone’s pressed pause on a remote. “Wuh?”

“You’re not sending Garth down a goddamn mountain, Dean Winchester,” Charlie tells him. “He’ll end up falling in the river.” Then she looks down at Garth, says, “No offense, Garth.”

He continues munching. “None taken. I know that I’m the nerdy, comedy sidekick and not the hero. It’s cool.”

“Well, it’ll have to be you and Benny then,” Dean informs Charlie. “‘Cause I ain’t leaving Cas.”

He hears Benny scoff derisively, but he elects to ignore it, ‘cause if he turns fully in Benny’s direction, then he’s gonna sock him in the fucking jaw.

“Dean,” comes Cas’ voice from behind again, so Dean turns to face him, waiting to hear his suggestion. Which Dean’ll give more weight than everybody else’s ‘cause Cas has got otherworldly eyes and a talent for exploiting Dean’s weakness (which is himself and therefore cheating, if you ask Dean). “I think you should go.”

_Oh._

“Yeah? Why’s that? Lay it out for me, lawyer boy.”

Cas gestures for Dean to come closer, so Dean drops to a crouch beside him, on the opposite side of Garth so that they have the illusion of privacy whilst Cas whispers in Dean’s ear, “Think about it logically. As you said, you’re the only one of us with survival savvy, which already puts you in the best position to deal with the terrain. But more importantly, you _know_ Benny can’t be trusted. We all know what he did to me, and you think letting him leave with Garth or Charlie is a good idea?” 

Dean side-eyes Benny who – along with Charlie – is staring down at them. Hmm. Yeah. Admittedly, Benny’s hate-boner is for Cas and possibly Dean, but if he’s cool with hurting one of them for whatever reason, then he can’t be trusted with any of them for any reason. Cas’s potentially broken ankle, the cuts, the bruises; someone who can do all that to another person – a _friend_ – over hurt feelings is obviously unhinged. 

Dean can handle himself. Garth has many talents, but throwing a punch ain’t one of them. 

Echoing Dean’s thoughts, Cas continues, “At least if you go with him, you’ve got some chance of defending yourself if he tries to hurt you. You can handle yourself in a way that Garth can’t. You’ve still got the multi-tool?”

Dean pats his pocket where it is, otherwise remaining silent.

“Good. Don’t be afraid to use it if he tries to do to you what he did to me. Just… be smart, please?”

Not Dean’s go-to state of being, especially as it’s getting harder to think straight around Benny and the urge to blindly act on his rage, but he’ll make a concerted effort, ‘cause Cas asked so nicely. 

“Okay, Cas.” He pushes back to his feet and turns to the three expectant faces. “Alright, Benny and I go. We’ll follow the river. Hopefully to some help.”

“Why’s it gotta be the river?” Garth asks, and three heads turn whip-quick to look at him. He’s making some pretty gross lip-smacking noises as he sucks the dust off his no-doubt-filthy-with-rain-and-dirt fingers. “ _What_?”

When nobody responds to either of Garth’s questions, he adds another to the tally, “Why can’t you two follow the road back down?”

“Because,” Charlie explains, “It was a curved dirt road winding up here the last couple of miles, and that’ll add a lot of distance to their hike, meaning it could take them a lot longer to find help. And that’s if they _don’t_ get lost. The river is more likely to be a straight shot, because, well gravity.”

Dean couldn’t have said that better himself.

Sometimes, it’s easy to forget that Garth ain’t just a caricature of a human, and is actually pretty smart, as proven by the next thing outta his mouth. “But what about my GPS unit?” 

_Holy fuck, yeah._

Though what are the odds that their stalker hasn’t smashed it or stolen it? 

Minimal. Especially if the stalker is Meg. Which leads Dean into his next voiced thought. “If the stalker went to the effort of ripping the damn ignition wires outta the car, then surely she would’ve taken the GPS too?” 

The slip of the tongue ain’t a slip at all. 

“She?” Garth asks, when nobody else does. Then realization dawns, and he hastily clambers to his feet, crushing the bag of Cheetos in his hand as he does. “You think Meg is behind this?”

“Who else could it be?” Dean returns. “It’s gotta be someone from college doing this shit. She knows where we are – Hell, by your own admission, she’s the one who told you about this fucking place!”

Garth vigorously shakes his head, droplets of rain from his rat-tailed emo-fringe pattering onto the floor. “She’s not like that, you guys. She wouldn’t do that, she’s Cas’ friend–”

It’s Cas’ turn to shake his head. “Not anymore,” he says. “She and I haven’t spoken in some time.”

Garth frowns. “But she said–”

This time it’s Charlie. “I _told_ you that chick was messed up back in college. If she’s the reason we’re in this mess right now, Garth, I am never gonna let you forget it.”

None of them will. 

Though, what on earth could Meg’s motivation be?

Something to do with Cas and Dean, that much is clear. 

  
  


***

‘If you love someone, let them go’ is a phrase people who have never loved anyone say. Dean has walked away from Cas a handful of times in his life, and it’s never proven his love. It’s always felt like abandonment. 

Never more so than right now. 

Hands cradling Cas’ head, fingers in the slip-slide strands of his hair, Dean kisses him, can’t stop. Never _wants_ to stop tasting the warm rainwater on his lips, the metallic tang of blood. ‘Cause it’s Cas. It’s real. It’s _them_.

Dean loves him. Has loved him for almost fifteen years. It’s never gone away, no matter how many times he’s drunk himself into unconsciousness in an attempt to forget for just a blissful blackout moment.

Cells may die and replace themselves every seven to ten years, meaning that Cas is no longer written into the code of Dean’s DNA, no longer in every pore of his skin (earlier tonight notwithstanding), but Cas is in Dean’s heart until it stops beating.

Cas grips the front of Dean’s shirt, the fabric bunching in his fists as they kiss, holding him in place, the two of them clutching at each other like they’re twenty again and the only two people in the world.

_Fuck._

Breaking apart for some much-needed oxygen, Dean butts his forehead against Cas’, and before he can think better of it or chicken out, he gives into everything he’s been trying to avoid for the last decade, distills it down into a few short words that he should’ve been saying for every one of those three-thousand-six-hundred-and-seventy-two days, “Cas, I love you. Always have. Always will. You know that, right?”

Twin halos of blue not leaving brimming green, Cas’ response is instant, profound, sincere. “I love you too, Dean.”

Dean kisses him again. And again. Frantic little touches that do nothing to convey the emotion behind them.

Breaths mingling, Cas’ lower lip catches against Dean’s as he whispers, “Remember what I said. Be careful. It didn’t take much for him to attack me, so be on your guard.”

“I got it, Cas,” Dean confirms with a shadowed half-smile, something dark and ugly inside him rearing its head. Like fuck is he gonna let Benny get the better of him. Not when so much is on the line. Just for good measure, and because he can’t resist, Dean reminds Cas, “I love you.”

“Now you’re just showing off,” Cas teases, but his eyes are liquid-dark and his voice is scratchy with emotion. “Go. The faster you get help, the faster you can be back here. With me.”

_Where you belong._

“Yeah,” Dean agrees with a final kiss to Cas’ mouth. “Yeah, okay.”

***

The summer storm has abated for now, but who knows when it’ll return to fuck up their day. As Dean and Benny step out onto the hotel’s porch, the musty, earthy smell hangs in the air.

Keeping the flashlight off, they cross the lot, checking for stalkers and storms, and finding none, they dart to the car. Shoes crunching over shards of glass, Dean peeks in through what used to be the driver’s side window. The holder where the GPS used to be is gone. Because of course it is. 

Dean sighs, says to Benny, “It’s not here. Looks like we’re going via the river.”

  
  


***

With Dean in front, they make it until they’re back in the woods before either of them speak.

Of course, the first one to break the fraught silence is Benny. “Look, Dean–”

Dean shakes his head, pushing a branch out of the way and not bothering to keep ahold of it for his former friend. The whip-crack it makes once Dean releases it and it smacks Benny in the neck is sadistically satisfying.

Benny grunts with the impact. “Okay, maybe I deserved that.”

_Maybe?_

A couple of seconds later, Benny’s trying again, and Dean would admire his tenacity if he was even remotely interested in what Benny has to say. “I pushed him, Dean. That’s all. He was getting up in my face and I shoved him out of the way.”

This story just keeps on changing. 

“I didn’t do _that_ to him. I have no idea how he got like that. All bloody and shit.”

Dean stomps down hard, petulantly, on a pretty purple flower growing at the base of a tree. Destruction for destruction’s sake, but he’s past giving a fuck. 

Benny sighs dramatically. “I get that you’ll never believe me over him, but just think about it logically for a second. Why the fuck would I beat him up in the middle of the woods, huh? What would I have to gain from it?”

“An outlet for fourteen years of pent-up resentment?” Dean answers as they approach the clearing with all their sleeping bags still laid out and water-logged. “I dunno, Benny. You tell me, man.”

“Nothin’, I’d gain nothin’. So, yeah, alright, I had a thing for you in college. Maybe even now, but that has nothin’ to do with how I felt about you and him together.”

_Now? Jesus._

Dean’s fingers curl into a fist. 

Benny has always been so damn vocal about Dean and Cas’ relationship. How it’s unhealthy, yadda yadda. In the context of tonight, Dean’s seeing those objections for exactly what they were and are.

Jealousy. Plain and fucking simple. 

_Meg’s motivation too?_

Benny doesn’t seem to heed the warning signs. “And the pair of you together is bad news. You know it, I know it, hell, even Cas knows it.”

“You think this is making you sound any less guilty?” Dean demands, trudging onward through the murky shadows. “‘Cause as far as I’m concerned, dude, you’re just laying out your fucking motive right here.”

“You killed a man together, Dean! What about that tells you that you’re a wholesome couple, huh, cher?”

Dean whirls on Benny, crunching twigs and leaves underfoot. “Yeah, he killed someone for me. Someone who was destroying my fucking life. The cops, you guys, there was nothing any of you could do. So Cas fucking _did_ something, he was the only one who stepped up. Who knows what that fucking psychopath would’ve done if Cas hadn’t put a bullet in him when he did?”

Benny’s face is barely a gray smudge in the darkness, but Dean can see the stark shock on his face. “You really believe that, don’t you? You really believe that he saved you?”

Dean’s just about had all he can bear of this bullshit. He will not be lectured by a man who followed someone into the woods and then beat the shit out of him when his back was turned. 

It’s the only way he’d ever get the jump on Cas.

“I’m not interested, Benny. Not unless you can prove to me that Cas is lying somehow. And you can’t, because he isn’t.”

Benny seems to consider this. “What if I could?”

Is nobody listening to Dean tonight? Is he just Charlie Brown’s teacher wah-wahing his way through life? 

“How?”

“I could try and find the place where I followed Cas to. Show you that my account of events is the correct one.”

It’s tenuous at best. ‘Cause, really, Benny could be leading Dean somewhere in order to hurt him like he did Cas. Or worse. 

Dean palms the multi-tool in his pocket, already on the defensive. “Yeah, alright, Benny. Show me where you _didn’t_ hurt Cas.”

***

It takes them a couple of long-winded attempts, picking their way slowly over the forest floor with the flashlight beam, but eventually, they find the place. They know that they’ve found it, ‘cause Benny’s shirt is snagged on a low-hanging tree branch, covered in spatters of blood.

_Cas’ blood._

Benny’s concept of innocence is an interesting one. 

“You didn’t do that to him, huh?” Dean demands, furious and completely unable – unwilling – to hide it. It’s that primal, soul-deep rage that renders Dean incapable of reason. “So, I guess somebody else wore your shirt and beat the shit outta Cas, right?

Dean can’t see Benny’s knuckles from here, but even if they’re only lightly abraded, he could’ve easily used the trees to do his dirty work. In fact, Dean’s kinda assuming that’s what happened, ‘cause Benny’s apparently a sneaky asshole like that.

_Jealousy is one hell of a motivator._

Staring down at his shirt like he’s never seen it before, Benny murmurs, “I left this back at the camp.”

“Sure you did,” Dean bites out, cruel and caustic, and just about done with this game of Clue. (Was it Charlie in the pool-room with her camera? Was it Meg upstairs with a pipe? Was it Benny in the woods with his fists? _[Yes]_ ). “How the fuck could you do that to him?” 

There’s throwing a punch in a fraught situation and then there’s beating the absolute crap out of a supposed friend because of some dumb crush. The former is excusable under a fair few circumstances, the latter definitely isn’t under _any_. 

Dean’s gonna lose what little remaining grip he has on his temper and jam the business end of the multi-tool’s folding blade into Benny’s carotid, if he doesn’t get the fuck outta here. _Now._

“I didn’t!”

“Fuck you, Benny.” With that, Dean’s stomping off back through the trees, and by the time Benny gets himself together enough to form a response, he’s yelling, arguing with the back of Dean’s ‘71 Led Zeppelin world tour shirt.

  
  


***

  
  


Dean reaches the river alone. His fury is banked again (for now), and so under the pretense of taking a couple of moments to get his bearings, he waits. 

Like Cas said, he’s gotta be smart about this. Benny can’t be trusted, but contrary to Benny’s opinion, Dean ain’t a cold-blooded murderer. 

Self-defense is a complete defense. 

The shoreline alongside the rushing stream is bordered by rocks, tilted pale slabs, chunks the size of cars, piles of smaller blocks, some of which look like they’ll wobble or slip underfoot. 

This ain’t gonna be easy.

Dean hears Benny approach behind him; the rustling of leaves, twigs snapping, harsh breathing. 

Dean tenses, waiting for Benny to start something, but he doesn’t. Instead, he comes to a stop next to Dean, chest rising and falling with his ragged breaths. 

It’s fine. Dean can wait.

Although the rain has stopped for now, everywhere is wet, the thick scent of moss and damp. It’s gonna be risky as fuck, but it’s the best shot they have.

They have to take it.

_And who knows? Maybe Benny will crack his head on a rock. Problem solved._

“Watch your feet,” Dean advises, the only genuine thing he’s willing to say to Benny right now. He sets off over the rough terrain, not bothering to wait for his ex-friend. 

He works methodically, heeding his own advice, almost losing his footing once or twice, but steadying himself at the last minute. Behind him, he hears Benny’s grunts and wheezes of exertion. 

“Dean,” Benny pants after they’ve only been going for fifteen minutes or so. “Can we take a breather?”

He wants to say no. Wants to tell Benny to eat shit, that this is all his fault. But he doesn’t. He wordlessly turns around and steps backward to a waist-high boulder, leaning against it, placing the still switched-off flashlight in a convenient little divot, watching as Benny halts a few feet from him, his back to the river. Benny unscrews the cap of the water bottle he’s been carrying, takes a deep glug, then makes as if to pass it to Dean. 

Dean shakes his head.

“Come on, brother,” Benny says, out of breath and exasperated. “I don’t got cooties.”

Dean almost smiles at that before he remembers himself. 

They fall into sullen silence, nothing but the rush of the river around them. 

Eventually, Benny says, “I only ever wanted what was best for you, Dean. I might have had a crush on you, but my concern for your welfare always came first.”

It heats Dean’s blood all over again, turns it right up from a low simmer into a full-blown boil. “Sure it did. Let’s suppose I believe you even for a second, then what about my _happiness_? Did you ever think, even for a moment, that Cas made – makes – me happy? That not a welfare concern? Or is it all just to do with what _you_ deem to be a healthy relationship?”

Benny sighs and looks away. His jaw twitches. “He’s dangerous, Dean.”

_Oh fuck, here we go again._

Thing is, he’s not wrong. Cas _is_ kinda dangerous. It’s part of his charm. 

“I don’t wanna hear it,” Dean snarls, old resentments coloring the words. “It’s none of your business. Never was. And doing _that_ to him to make some kind of twisted point? Man, it’s so fucked up, I can’t even bring myself to try and figure out what the hell is going on in your brain.” He chokes out a laugh, but it’s a hollow, bitter sound. “I thought I knew you, and all this time, you’ve been someone else entirely.”

He goes to turn away, _done_ with this entire argument, and ready to start hiking again, but Benny grabs him by the arm, right where Ketch did thirteen years ago. Adrenaline flooding his veins, Dean reacts instantly, whirling on him, multi-tool in hand, blade out and pointed at Benny, glinting silver in the moonlight. 

Benny lets go, raising his palms in a gesture of surrender.

“Touch me again and I’ll kill you.” And Dean means it, he really does, even if his hand is shaking and he never thought that his first _actual_ kill would be his friend.

 _Ex-friend._

Eyes wide and scared like he’s found himself caged with a tiger, or a crazy person with a knife and an injured love-of-his-life, Benny nods jerkily. “Message received. Loud and clear.”

Anger flashed and burned – but still wary – Dean waits for Benny’s next move, tension coiling in his spine, Cas’ advice replaying over and over in his head until the recording wears itself out.

Benny begins backing away in careful inches, but he misses a step with his right foot, and his ankle rolls. Before either of them can react, Benny’s flailing, his arms pinwheeling, trying to regain his balance on the mossy, slippery rock. It’s no use. Dean watches as Benny falls backward, his head narrowly missing a sharp jut of rock a couple of inches to the left. The plastic water bottle falls from his hand and makes a crinkle-snap as it bounces off the rock, before tumbling into the river and getting swept away downstream by the current. 

Holy shit. 

Flat on his back, legs in a wide sprawl, the crown of his head almost at the edge of the slab of rock above the rush of water, chest rising and falling with his ragged, pained breaths, Benny makes for a sorry sight with his likely bruised ass and ego.

_So close and yet so far._

_Shame._

Still. Lack of universe-inflicted fatality aside, it must fucking hurt and Dean feels vicious and vindicated by karmic retribution. 

Winded, Benny shoves himself into a sitting position, his palms pitted with dirt, his face flushed and expression tight. He seems okay, just shocked and freaked out. 

Benny looks up at him as Dean stares down. “Dean?” Benny rasps, voice cracking around the edges, “You gonna put away the knife and help me up, brother?”

That’s a good question.

Dean hesitates. It would be so easy. After all, this is what he did to Cas, right? Attacked him when he was vulnerable. 

“Dean?”

He stares at the knife in his hand, his fingers bleeding white where he’s holding it in a death grip, the tip of the blade pointed directly at Benny’s throat. 

_He hurt Cas._

“Dean?”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are slowly but surely inching our way towards the end... Getting to the good stuff now XD

**13 years ago, after winter break, junior year**

There’s a five-star constellation of hickies flirting their way up Dean’s neck. He knows this because Jo took one look at him before his meeting with Professor McKenzie about his slipping grades, and shoved him into the nearest campus bathroom with a stubby tube of concealer.

Dead-pulse calm, he stares down his reflection. Wonders when he became so irrevocably changed, when his DNA shifted to intertwine with Cas’. 

It’s easy to assume that it was right before winter break, but the fusing had to have happened before then. It’s hard to remember anymore. It feels like Cas has always been there, inside and out. A part of himself manifested and made human; two halves of a whole. 

_Soulmates._

Does the fact that he flunked an elective or two matter then? Like, really? So his exam results from the winter finals were less than stellar. He’ll just take some make-up tests, or whatever. It’s no big.

Not taking-your-stalker’s-life-big anyways. Not finding-the-yin-to-your-yang, the-Clyde-to-your-Bonnie important.

Dean might be young and inexperienced — or whatever excuses older generations use to invalidate the feelings of their kids — but he knows that this is it. This is fucking real. What he and Cas have is solid. Built on strong foundations of friendship (admittedly, mostly Mortal Kombat marathons and study sessions, but still), reinforced by their pretty intense chemistry, and then bricked in with the murder of Dean’s stalker.

There’s no way anything could ever come close to this, to _them_. 

The outside world feels insignificant compared to the magnitude of everything Dean’s feeling internally. It’s heady and scary and Dean never wants the sensation to go away. Wants to exist solely in this tilt-a-whirl of emotions and loaded words and weighted looks.

In the empty bathroom, Dean sighs. 

Because he understands that sometimes you have to play the game (even though Cas is the only thing he's willing to go to bat for), Dean dutifully covers up the blood-rich incisor dents, the single-word love letters written in broken capillaries. 

Mine. Always. Forever. Together. Bound. ('Til. Death. Do. Us. Part.)

Dean still knows that they’re there, and that’s what matters. 

***

“How’d the meeting go?” Charlie asks over the phone. They haven’t seen each other so far this semester, and Dean can hear the pinch of worry in her tone. “Is Professor McKenzie gonna give you the chance to retake?”

Sitting at their tiny kitchen table, Cas is writing his practice LSAT answers on Dean’s bare arm. 

Like that time he was in the front row at a Lynyrd Skynyrd concert and Johnny Van Zant reached down from the stage and shook his hand, Dean’s determined to never wash this section of his skin. 

(Of course, he did eventually wash his hand, but he was broken-hearted about it the second he realized his mistake).

“Yeah,” Dean says, right as Cas tsks at himself, crosses out a line of blue writing firmly with his pen, making Dean squirm. Cas’ pink tongue is poking out from between his lips, and Dean's always had a thing for the way he looks all studious and shit. “I’ve got a make-up test next week.”

Her exhalation of relief is all he hears for a long few seconds. Then, in an abrupt gear change, she asks, “So, what are you doing for your birthday? Cas got something big planned?”

It’s just a shade too casual to be anything other than the _opposite_ of casual. 

“I dunno,” Dean answers honestly, the skin on his arm pebbling unhelpfully. “It’s just another birthday.”

Though, it's not just another anything. It's another year of life. 

_How many years did you steal from Ketch? Would he have lived to be 70? 80? 90? Kids? Grandkids?_

Charlie says nothing for a long moment. Then, all false cheer, she tries, “It’s your twenty-first. You can finally drink legally! C’mon, that’s a reason to celebrate, right?”

Eh.

“You’ve gotta at least go out for a drink or two? We haven’t seen either of you for ages. All I get are these phone calls, like you’re in prison or something.”

Dean sighs, waits for a break in Cas’ writing to put his hand over his cell’s mic. “Charlie wants to know what we’re doing for my birthday.”

Cas raises his eyebrows, pen poised above the crook in Dean’s elbow. “What do you want to do for your birthday?”

“Could have a party, I guess.”

“Alright,” Cas agrees easily. “Maybe not here though, it’s probably not big enough.”

Yeah, ‘cause Dean has _so_ many friends, but he appreciates Cas’ tact all the same. 

“At Charlie and Garth’s?”

“Sounds good,” Cas smiles fleetingly and goes back to writing on Dean. 

Dean puts his cell back to his ear and catches the end of Charlie’s muffled “—m worried about them, we never see them anymore—”

“Charlie?”

“Yes!” Her voice comes back at full volume. 

“Would you be cool with throwing a party at your place? Ours is kinda small, y’know?”

“Of course! Leave it to me, it’ll be a party to remember, I promise!”

***

It’s like a wishing well curse, Dean getting everything he ever wanted. Like a monkey’s paw. Sure, he has Cas, he has a dead stalker, but at what cost? 

Sometimes he lies awake at night, listening to the gentle lull of Cas’ breathing, nuzzling his face into Cas’ throat, breathing in the scent of his skin. Most of the time, Cas seems indestructible, unassailable, but when he’s asleep, there’s an excruciating vulnerability in the soft lines of his face. 

Does Cas think about what they did? Are there some nights when Dean’s breathing deep, shivering ever-so-slightly on every fifth inhale, where Cas is watching him sleep, wondering about the toll on their collective sanity? 

Would he do it differently? Would he do it at all? Does he regret it? 

Twenty years old feels too young to carry this burden. Twenty-one feels only slightly less young. 

It was necessary. Dean doesn’t regret it at all, but that’s because it was _his_ stalker. Killing for somebody else is… Permanent. Binding. Unbreakable. 

Dean can’t legally drink for another two days, but he _can_ say with complete certainty that his soul belongs to the man half-beneath him.

Time is undefeated so far. Life is death. But there are things you can live for and there are things you can die for. 

Dean lives for Cas. And he’d die for him too. 

In his sleep, Cas shifts, bringing his arm up around Dean’s lower back, anchoring him. Dean smiles against the underside of Cas’ jaw. 

At the end, there’s only love. And if Dean were to die tomorrow, he’d die knowing how it feels to be loved so completely and wholly that nothing else will ever come close. 

***

So, admittedly, Dean and Cas might have spent the entirety of Christmas break wrapped up in each other. Sammy hates Christmas, and so Dean doesn’t feel guilty about not having gone home. He called, and that’s what matters, right? That he at least spared them a thought between his Cas-colored ones? John was less than pleased, but Dean’s taking a leaf outta Cas’ book and not giving a damn what his family thinks, ‘cause Cas is his found family and he’s what matters.

The blood of the covenant, and all that.

Their self-imposed isolation has been a major talking point for their friends; a fish-wife gossip circle where there’s no need for one, ‘cause Cas and Dean are just _fine_. In fact, Dean’s never felt better, completely free of his stalker and the paranoia that came with his looming presence. Now, he’s just _choosing_ to stay inside with Cas. 

So the overreaction he receives at his birthday party is far from warranted, but entirely expected. 

Charlie and Garth’s place is covered in multi-colored streamers and balloons, and Dean can’t help feeling like he’s walking into an eleven-year-old’s birthday party, complete with jungle juice that may or may not be spiked for the adults in the room. 

Gang’s all here, and yeah, it’s nice that they went to all this kitschy trouble, so Dean’s smile is genuine. His friends are good people who care about him, and it’s been difficult to remember that when there’s only one person in the world who’s prepared to kill for him.

In all fairness, it’s kind of a high standard to live up to, so maybe, just maybe, he should cut his friends some slack and try to meet them halfway. 

He and Cas could start going to horror aficionados meetings again, perhaps. At least that would get Charlie, Garth, and Benny off their backs. Soothe three fishwives with one appearance.

_Or something._

People clap him on the shoulder as he weaves his way through the bodies crammed into the living room, and he gets a Solo cup of jungle juice shoved into his hand during a round of birthday hugs, and okay, yep, definitely spiked, ‘cause Dean takes one whiff and his nose hairs get singed. 

He exchanges a glance with Cas, who smiles slyly back at him, blatantly amused. Dean offers the cup to him, tilting the cup just right so that his boyfriend can see the fluorescent tint to the liquid. 

Cas — forever the brave one in their relationship — snags it out of Dean’s hand, sniffs at it, then takes a cautious sip. 

Dean’s laugh at Cas’ ‘Jesus-fucking-christ-that’s-thoroughly-disgusting’ grimace is loud and unabashedly happy and it brings Jo over to them, the only person not to drag Dean into a bone-crushing so-glad-you’re-back-from-the-hundred-years’-war hug yet. 

Her opening line isn’t: ‘hey, how’s things’ or ‘happy birthday, buttface’, it’s, “what happened to your face?” as she reaches up to stroke a gentle finger over the pink, ever-so-slightly abraded skin on his jaw. 

_Ah._

Dean doesn’t have the heart to outright tell her that the blue-eyed angelface standing next to him is responsible for the carpet burn on his face and neck, is responsible for ruining a perfectly good pair of well-fitting pants that he received for his birthday, is responsible for them being beyond fashionably late to Dean’s own party.

Though Cas would likely argue the point; blame Dean and his ass in the aforementioned pants for everything. 

For their sins, Dean and his butt took the meted-out punishment like any self-respecting adult receiving their birthday _humps_ (heh). It’s only now, with Jo openly staring at him like he’s just declared his undying love for butternut squash or something equally out-of-character, that Dean’s starting to suspect the mark he caught a glimpse of as he and Cas hastily pulled (non-ruined) clothes on is actually a lot worse.

With that in mind, Dean makes a deliberate point of turning to his boyfriend. Their eyes hold; a silent battle of wills: _‘you wanna ruin her innocence or should I?’_

Dean taps his thumb against his cup. Somebody’s elbow knocks into his back. Cas isn’t surrendering. Not that Dean expected him to.

They stare each other down. After the socially acceptable amount of time passes, Dean starts to forget that anybody exists, let alone that he apparently owes them an explanation for what he and his boyfriend get up to in the privacy of their own apartment. 

It isn’t until Jo clears her throat pointedly that Dean remembers her presence and is able to squeak out a less than convincing, “I fell?”

She looks between them skeptically, not dumb or born yesterday. “You _fell_?”

He’s never been shy about sharing details of their sex life before, but since Ketch’s murder, he’s become recalcitrant. What goes on between him and Cas is between them. It’s just _for_ them. 

They’re good at keeping secrets, after all. 

Still, he has to give her something other than a battered-wife excuse, so he elaborates, “Yeah. Face first into the carpet. Repeatedly.”

She frowns, then realization dawns and her expression smoothes out. “Oh. Ohhhhh.” She glances at Cas. “Didn’t know you had it in you, Novak.”

Deadpan as fuck and not missing a beat, Cas replies, “That’s because _I_ didn’t.”

Dean’s thankful he doesn’t have a mouthful of vodka and fruit punch or he’d be performing a comical spit take right about now.

Jo’s expression is bemused and ever-so-slightly impressed. Stupid, teenage-boy innuendos are her and Dean’s thing, practically a cornerstone of their relationship. It’s not often that someone outside of their dynamic — especially someone like stoic, serious Cas — is able to one-up her. It’s gotta sting a bit. 

Supremacy confirmed, Cas catches Dean by the elbow, leans in close, his lips brushing over the shell of Dean’s ear as he murmurs, “I’m just going to catch up with Charlie. I’ll see you in a while.”

Dean nods mutely — barely refraining from begging him not to leave — and Cas squeezes his elbow before disappearing through the press of bodies. 

“Every time I see you, Dean — which isn’t often these days — you’ve got some kind of mark on you, courtesy of your boyfriend,” Jo says, forcing his attention back to her. 

“Well, like you said, you don’t see me all that often, so it’s probably just good luck,” Dean jokes, but it’s kind of a feeble attempt, strained around the edges.

She doesn’t even crack a smile, shaking her head sadly. “I thought since your stalker was gone, you’d be around us more, not less.”

“What?”

“The creepy guy across the hall? Arthur something, the one you thought was doing all the stalking? He’s missing.”

_Oh, shit._

Someone bumps into Dean from behind again and he turns, grateful for the out from this conversation. Until he sees that it’s Meg with two drinks in her hands, and Dean just bets one of them is for Cas. 

Ugh. 

“Oopsie. Don’t mind me,” she says, acerbic-sweet. 

“Oh, I never do,” Dean tells her, bitchy right back, ‘cause unfortunately it’s frowned upon to dropkick people in the middle of birthday parties. 

She makes a point of looking Jo up and down, before turning her attention back to Dean. “I love how whitebread your friends are, Dean. So nice and innocent. And _unassuming_.”

_Fuck this._

“Haven’t you got a princess and some adventurers to turn into stone somewhere?” Dean smarts. “Better get to it before Perseus comes along and chops your fucking head off.”

Her smile is serrated. “Clever. But no. All I have to do tonight is hang out with my bestest bud over there.” Since her hands are full, she inclines her head in Cas’ direction. “Whilst you’re here playing in the kiddie pool. Have fun, children.”

And with that, she’s off, snaking through the crowd.

“Wow,” Jo says, staring after her, dumbfounded. “What a bitch.”

“Right? I don’t get why the two of them are friends.”

“There’s no accounting for taste.” She nudges Dean with her elbow and shoots him a weak grin, but it’s something. “I mean, my best friend is a jackass who’s forever dropping me to hang out with his boyfriend. Maybe she’s feeling pushed out like I am.”

_Maybe._

The rest of Jo’s sentence filters into his brain a moment later. “Hey, I don’t drop you.”

“No,” she agrees, taking a sip of her drink. “You just never agree to meet up in the first place.”

Dean can’t really argue with that.

  
  


***

Despite his best attempts to keep his and Jo’s conversation away from Ketch, it inevitably circles back.

“And you haven’t been getting any more gifts or photos, right?” Jo presses. “So maybe it _was_ him stalking you and somebody’s done you a favor.” Her gaze slides over to where Cas is talking in close quarters with Meg, and the denial dies on Dean’s lips.

Fervently defending Cas will just make the pair of them look more guilty. 

Instead, he stalls by taking a deep, slow drink of his awful, disgusting booze and doesn’t bother to hide his revulsion when he pulls it away, coughing. “That is fucking gross.”

Jo’s smile is thin, but she lifts her beer gamely. “That’s why I’m drinking this.”

“Smart woman,” Dean says, and means it in more ways than the obvious.

“I have my moments,” she responds, and, reading between the lines, Dean gets it. 

He can’t not respond. “Yeah,” he says, “maybe somebody’s done me a favor.”

  
  


*** 

The party goes on. People come up to Dean, people he’s never met, and Dean isn’t wondering if they’re the ones who took a photo of him or wrote the words ‘I’ll never let you go’. He even goes to the bathroom and doesn’t find those same words scrawled in red lipstick on the mirror.

It’s freeing as fuck. 

When Dean leaves the bathroom, Benny is right there, shoving another drink into Dean’s hand (thankfully beer this time) and demanding that Dean follows him out back. 

Dean goes, even as he sees Cas gambling for his attention, throwing it all on twenty-six black as he stares at Dean across the room, ignoring his own conversation with some nobody that he didn’t commit murder with. 

It's almost like he thinks he's not the one Dean's forever staring right back at.

  
  


***

Outside, Benny forces him to squeeze past a couple making out underneath the awning — a thoughtful touch by Charlie and Garth, ‘cause this is January in California, and rain does happen — and toward the edge of the narrow patio. 

They’re close enough that Dean’s getting drunk(er) off the alcohol on Benny’s breath, and Dean has a moment to wonder why the secrecy before Benny whispers, “Thought you needed rescuing from there. From everyone.”

_Ah, so that’s why._

Dean lifts one shoulder in a shrug, “It’s not so bad.” He’s actually been enjoying himself. He very nearly feels normal, despite knowing he’s forever changed by what he and Cas did. 

Benny’s eyes dart between Dean’s, like he’s searching for the truth in the statement. “Yeah? Then why you been avoidin’ us? _Me_?”

Dean shrugs again. “Cas and I are in the honeymoon phase.” 

_Yeah, the homicidal honeymoon after getting murder married._

Benny nods enthusiastically, sloppily. “Sure you are, and y’know, I’m happy for you if you’re happy. But, I’m just wonderin’ if everythin’s okay? You’ve got some marks on your face and neck, and—”

“—I’m gonna stop you right there.” ‘Cause Dean knows where this is going and he doesn’t like it. “I’m fine. Cas and I are fine. He’s not abusing me or whatever, if that’s what you think is going on.” The alcohol is making his tongue loose. He’d never usually voice that out loud, never do Cas the injustice of putting that shit right out there. But since everybody else seems to be doing that tonight, Dean’s gotta head ‘em off at the pass.

“No, I just. I’m just worried about you, cher. You’re like a ghost these days. And I get that things have been fucked up for you, but I wanna make sure that you’re not just clingin’ on to Cas too tight. He’s gotta be free to be his own person. And so do you, yeah? It’s not healthy for you to both be wrapped up in each other. You’ve gotta let each other breathe.”

Dean’s far from sober, but it sounds kinda sensible. Cas does need to be able to do his own thing, doesn’t he? Is Dean preventing him from that by holding him so close? He doesn’t think so, but what if he is? What if Cas is feeling trapped? That’s the last thing Dean wants. 

Benny’s only seeing a small sliver of their relationship; a thin wedge of it that couldn’t possibly make sense to an outsider. But Dean’s only gauge for normality is his friends, and they all seem to agree with Benny.

The seed is planted, and Dean nods, numbly. “Yeah.”

Benny claps him on the shoulder. “Good man.”

***

It’s a couple of hours — and several beers later — that the party begins its wind-down, until there’s only a few determined stragglers left. 

Dean’s been ignoring Cas since he and Benny came in from the patio, despite Cas’ repeated attempts to get his attention — he’ll thank Dean later — and instead, Dean’s been getting steadily wasted. He’s not sure anymore if everyone has a twin or he’s just that smashed. 

He’s been talking to some pretty brunette who’s wearing a dress that dips so low into her cleavage that if there was ever any uncertainty about Dean’s Cassexuality, the fact that Dean’s staring studiously anywhere but the enticing dip between her breasts would be the final nail in the coffin for that doubt.

Still, all Cas sees is Dean engaging with a beautiful woman, and from the glances Dean steals at his boyfriend, Cas isn’t impressed. 

There’s the slow slide of blue beneath inky lashes, as Cas pretends to be interested in whatever Garth is prattling on about, and Dean scrunches his fist down into his pocket, excitement and nerves churning in his gut. 

Benny’s wrong. This isn’t suffocating; this is them sharing the same breath. They’re fueling each other’s craziness, and Dean loves how alive it makes him feel, how deep and rich this thing between them is. 

So, a little later, when Jo leans in to give Dean a goodbye kiss — a good inch or so to the left of his mouth — he deliberately turns to watch Cas’ reaction. 

It does not disappoint. A whole host of emotions pass behind Cas’ eyes, too fast for Dean to catalog every one of them. Cas’ whole body tenses, something in him on the verge of snapping, and Dean’s chest tightens, even as he grins, smugly pleased and sloshy drunk.

Cas is seeing spanked-ass red, and Dean is here for it. 

After all, it's his party, and he can cry if he wants to. 

  
  


***

  
  


In the wake of his birthday celebrations, Dean makes a concerted effort to see his friends more. Jo especially, because Dean may have forgotten enough of that night in all its drunken, jungle-juice-fluorescent haze, but he certainly hasn’t forgotten Jo’s turn as Miss fucking Marple. 

Keep your friends close, but keep those who suspect your boyfriend of foul play closer. 

He also hasn’t forgotten about Benny’s advice. So, he gives it a go. Just to see what will happen. He gives Cas his space. As much as he can anyway, seeing as they live together and spend a lot of their spare moments collapsed in a sweaty, fucked-out heap. 

Which is to say, Dean stops trailing after Cas like a starstruck fan, and instead sometimes doesn’t meet him from class, pretending to be busy with Jo.

 _Pretends_ , because yeah, he’s with Jo in body, but in spirit he’s with Cas, bringing him coffee and getting blown in the law library stacks, right between ‘Law and Disorder’ and ‘Letters to a Law Student’. 

  
  


***

  
  


One of the very few perks of Dean’s junior year schedule is that his completely free Thursday mornings coincide with Cas’ completely free Thursday mornings. Sure, they have the weekends to themselves, but there’s something extra illicit about fucking on college time. Especially when he’s supposed to be studying, ‘cause his grades have taken a nose-dive this year. He’s been playing catch-up, and whilst he should still scrape by, it’s a little close for comfort. 

So, Dean’s not entirely surprised, but wholly disappointed, when instead of waking him up with a tongue in his ass, Cas wakes him up with an ‘Engineering Analysis Using the Finite Element Method’ textbook to the chest.

(Luckily it’s only a paperback).

Dean’s breath whooshes out of him and he groans, turning onto his side, letting the book slide off and into the covers. He buries his face in the pillows, so his, “You’re an asshole, Castiel,” gets lost to polyester. 

Cas must have super-hearing though, ‘cause he grabs the corner of the comforter and drags it off of Dean’s body, leaving Dean flailing to grab it before it disappears entirely. “You might be right.”

 _No ‘might’ about it_. 

“We’re studying this morning,” Cas tells him with all the gravitas of a 1970s cane-wielding headmaster from an English boarding school. “I’ve made some coffee. I expect you in the living room in ten minutes.”

The ‘or else’ goes unsaid, but it’s enough for Dean to wonder if Cas has actually managed to conjure up a cane from somewhere. Which is enough motivation for him to get the hell outta bed and be the worst student he can be.

Dean’s dressed and semi-respectable in just under three minutes (Dean _really_ likes the idea of student-teacher roleplay, complete with cane), and he pads into their living room on bare feet. He’s carrying the textbook Cas woke him with under his arm, and there are at least three others layered on top of each other atop the coffee table. Next to a couple of steaming mugs of coffee. 

He rushes toward his mug, the one with the ‘What Would Jason Voorhees Do?’ design. Cas is nowhere to be seen, but Dean can hear him in the kitchen, can make out snatches of a one-sided conversation.

“—I’m spending the morning with Dean like I always do. No, I haven’t forgotten that you exist. How could I, with the way you’re always reminding me?”

He sounds angry, and Dean sips his coffee, sneaking closer to the kitchen, so he can hear better.

There’s a protracted pause as Cas listens to whoever it is at the other end. Then he says, “You sound like a jealous wife. Stop being so petty. You’re my friend, but Dean is my boyfriend. I don’t understand why you’re being like this, Meg.”

_Fucking Meg._

The phone calls have been getting more and more frequent, and Dean would put it down to the same worry his and their mutual friends are exhibiting, but it’s _Meg_. She doesn’t give a shit about Cas and Dean; she doesn’t give a shit about anything, except for getting her own way. 

Dean hates that she does this to Cas. Just pulls him up outta nowhere, demanding things of him, taking up all of the attention that’s supposed to be for Dean. 

Another pause. Then, “I don’t care what you ‘think you know’. I will not be blackmailed into spending less time with Dean, just to appease your narcissism. Why don’t you go and see Garth or one of the other poor bastards you enjoying dragging around by their dicks, and leave me be for an entire morning?” And with that, Cas hangs up, tossing his phone onto the countertop. He blows out a tired breath and scrapes a hand through his hair. 

Dean leans against the doorway, coffee in hand. “Broads, eh? Can’t live with ‘em, can’t live without ‘em.”

If Cas is surprised by Dean’s presence, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he invades Dean’s space like he owns it, and Dean inhales deeply, breathing the spicy, warm scent of him in. “She seems to think that we’re a little too attached to one another.”

“Yeah?” Dean croaks. “What do _you_ think?”

Cas’ voice is pitched low when he replies, “I think we’re just the right level of attached.” He kisses Dean on the mouth, just a soft kiss that smolders into a slow burn, and the tension at the base of Dean’s spine eases with each sweep of Cas’ tongue against his, and Cas backs him up onto the couch, studying the furthest thing away from either of their minds. 

***

First Charlie, then Jo, Benny, and now Meg. There’s gotta be something in it, right? 

Dean knows he’s been coiling himself around Cas, squeezing him tighter and tighter like a python, but now that the idea’s been put in his head, Dean can’t shake the feeling that he’s cutting off the circulation.

Is this really what Cas wants? He killed for Dean, he loves Dean, but that doesn’t necessarily mean that he wants to shove himself underneath Dean’s bones like Dean does him. Doesn’t necessarily mean that Cas uses all of his brain space on memorizing every inch of Dean’s skin. Doesn’t necessarily mean that he revels in the way Dean’s lungs expand and press at his chest when they’re so close together that they might as well be in one body.

So, what does he do? Does he start paying attention to what everyone else thinks? Is the way he’s behaving suspicious? Is it making people look more closely at them?

 _Shit._

Jo has her hunch about Ketch — something Dean has yet to tell Cas — but is there anybody else who could’ve figured it out? 

_Benny, maybe._

Nah. Benny would’ve said something by now, if he knew anything. He’s just seeing how close they are and figuring it’s unhealthy.

Which, maybe it is. Maybe it’s fucked up and destructive and everybody’s right. 

Dean’s not dumb. He knows that traditional, run-of-the-mill relationships don’t often involve murder and a desire to bury yourself in each other and never come up for air. He knows to a degree that the way he and Cas behave ain’t exactly gonna get them on the cover of ‘Whitebread Relationships Weekly’, or whatever, but they’re not hurting anybody (except those that deserve it), so what’s the harm? 

It’s really starting to grind him down, and during midterms and Cas’ LSAT, Dean has to fight not to ask Cas whether he wants Dean to come meet him right after. Instead, he says he’s going to Jo’s place, and good luck, he’ll be thinking of Cas. 

In reality, he doesn’t go to Jo’s; he sits at home, pretending to study, thinking of nothing but Cas, feeling miserable and wretched, like he’s doing something wrong here. 

When Cas comes home, hair a mess and pressed-in-bruises beneath his eyes, Dean’s happy to be the stress relief and basks in Cas' attention on him all over again. 

  
  


***

They show their faces at a couple of horror aficionados meetings, but it’s kinda awkward; the atmosphere heavy and tense with things unsaid. Charlie is overly nice, like a 1950s mom tiptoeing around their shared psychosis; Benny frowns whenever Cas leans in just a little bit too close to Dean (which Dean writes off as Benny being grossed out by them); and Garth puts his foot in it by exuberantly saying, “Hey, it’s nice to see you both — it feels like you’re too busy for us these days!”

He receives twin glares from the other two for that one.

It’s all very forced, and Dean’s not sure when his friends stopped being able to approach him and/or Cas like normal human beings, but it leaves him with a bad taste in his mouth.

Should he try harder or just cut the friendship strings? 

He doesn’t want to go with option B, but they’re about to head into their senior year; they’ve got finals and LSATs and plenty of crap on their minds without their friends giving them shit too. 

He’ll talk to Cas about it over the summer. When there’s no distractions and it’s just the two of them again. 

***

A couple of weeks before finals, Cas receives his LSAT result: 178, the fucking genius.

“A full point lower than Elle Woods,” Dean teases him with a grin and a chest full of pride.

***

Dean and Cas meet their friends at a local bar for some congratulatory drinks. Cas is sloppy drunk within the first half-hour, his unusually high tolerance for alcohol failing him miserably in the face of gallons of shots that get poured down his throat by Meg.

Usually, Dean would go all green-eyed monster, but he’s tryna be a good boy and not let his jealousy and possibly unhealthy attachment get in the way. Especially not on Cas’ special night. Instead, he spends the night skirting around the edges of people’s conversation, attempting not to let his gaze wander back to Cas. 

Which fails miserably.

He can’t not look at him, and it’s a relief to find Cas nearly always staring back, even as Meg wraps herself around him, the snake in the garden of Eden, all original sin. 

Dean turns to Benny, who’s relaying some of Charlie and Garth’s recent antics in the hopes of enticing Dean and Cas to start attending horror aficionados meetings more regularly again. 

It’s not an entire lie when Dean replies, “Man, I’d love to, but my grades have been slipping and I’ve been playing catch-up all semester,” before excusing himself and racing toward the exit. 

Outside, he leans against the brickwork underneath a too-bright motion detector light, and sighs on an exhale.

 _Breathe._ _4-7-8._

The door to his left opens, and Dean’s half-expecting to see Benny or Cas — wholly hoping for the latter — but unfortunately, it’s neither. It’s fucking Meg.

“Hi, handsome,” she says, like oil on water, and Dean’s spine straightens, immediately on his guard. They haven’t spoken since his birthday a few months back, and Dean’s perfectly content with that.

“What do you want?”

She inhales sharply. “Oh my, I’m detecting some hostility.” She waves a hand, encompassing all of Dean. “I don’t understand why you hate me so much.”

 _Well, that’s a lie._

Gamely, Dean replies, “Sure you don’t, sweetheart. Are we just gonna pretend that you’re not in there, draping yourself all over my boyfriend in the hopes that he’ll actually notice you? Give you the time of day like he used to?” He sticks his bottom lip out in a pout, the alcohol making the venom come to him more readily. “Aw, it sucks, doesn’t it, when your crush is unrequited? I wouldn’t know, _obviously_ , because Cas loves me, but maybe you could find yourself some kind of reptilian sewer dweller to bump uglies with and fit in with your lifestyle.”

_Damn, that feels good._

She presses a hand to her chest, bright pink talons against tanned skin. “Ouch. You’re hurting my feelings.”

Dean’s smile is all teeth. “You don’t have any.”

“Apart from the ones for your boyfriend, supposedly.”

_Touché._

Sensing she’s gained a tiny lead over Dean, she continues, “I’ll level with you, Ken doll. I don’t think you’re cut out for Castiel. He’s special, and you’re—” She drops her eyes down his body and back up again, and Dean has to fight back the repulsed shudder. “Well, you’re just bland, boring, _nothing_. I thought you’d be long gone by now, his little infatuation with you burned out. But you’re just the little engine who could, aren’t you? It’s quite sweet, really. But ultimately tragic.”

_Infatuation?_

The light goes out, plunging them both into darkness. 

It soon comes back on when Meg moves, closing in on Dean like prey, and Dean fights to stand his ground. 

“Tragic? Didn’t you hear me? Cas loves me. We live together.” _We’ve killed together._ “If he wanted to be with you, even a little, don’t you think he would be? Now back the fuck off, or I’ll—”

She squares up to him, and yeah, Dean can’t stand the bitch, but he’s gotta admit that she’s got balls. “—or you’ll what? Glare at me some more? Cling onto our boy in there even tighter? Let’s stop pretending that this is going to last, that you’re even close to being good enough for him, and start some self-actualization right now. I’ve known Clarence for a long time. We go way, way back. I know everything about him. The skeletons in his rather deep closet. You? You’ve known him a fraction of the time, so don’t be getting all bitchy with me, because if it was a choice? I’d win every single time.”

Scrabbling for his equilibrium, Dean scratches out, “Why are you like this?” 

She dips her index finger in his fruity cocktail thing, sucks the flavor off the digit. “Because it’s fun.”

And with that, she sashays away, winking at him before she disappears back inside, leaving Dean standing there gaping after her. 

***

Dean stays outside for a while, trying to parse out the truth in her words. It’s a fruitless endeavor, because the space his brain uses for thinking is far too preoccupied with simply replaying her words on a loop. 

It’s like she’s just wiped him, pressed the factory reset, and he’s now rendered incapable of doing anything except letting his anger build. It burns through him, faster than the alcohol. 

He’s just about to work himself into a fury, contemplating yanking the door open and dragging her outta there by her hair, bruising his knuckles on her face, when Jo pokes her head around the door, relief smoothing out her features when she sees Dean standing there. “Dean, there you are! Come and get your boyfriend. He’s drunk off his ass.”

“Yeah,” Dean grits out, still reeling, but anger receding. “Sure.”

***

They stagger home together, Cas barely upright and mumbling nonsense. Dean only catches snippets as he steers Cas along the darkened streets with weak spots of light. “...not leaving. t’let you.”

Dean has to prop Cas up against the wall next to their door to fumble for the keys in his pocket. His fingers aren’t cooperating, which just adds to his frustration because the last thing they need is their old neighbor, Ms. Seabrook, making a noise complaint against them again. 

Though, she’s nearly deaf, so Dean really must’ve been screaming pretty loud. 

Cas is still going, still talking, but this time, Dean catches one coherent sentence as the door swings open, "I'd die before I let you leave."

“I’m not going anywhere,” Dean reassures him, steering him inside. ‘Cause fuck Meg and her bullshit. “You’re gonna be a hotshot lawyer; you think I’m getting off of this gravy train? No, siree, I’m riding you all the way to the bank.”

Cas is a few shots too sloppy to build on the innuendo Dean’s laying down, but that’s probably for the best, ‘cause whiskeydick is a real thing, and judging by the amount of alcohol sloshing around in Dean’s stomach like a cement mixer, he’s sure that it’s an affliction they’ll both be suffering from.

Dean helps his boyfriend to bed, strips him down to his boxer briefs with clumsy fingers, before sort of rolling him under the covers. It takes some maneuvering and a few pretty adorable grumbles from Cas before they get him safely ensconced, on his side, with a pillow behind him so that he can’t roll onto his back and choke to death on his own vomit. Like Jimi Hendrix, just without the mad skills and the extra six years.

_Glamorous._

Dean hurries round to the other side of the bed, getting undressed on the way. He slides in next to Cas, practically bumping noses, and the fumes of alcohol between them are creating an almost visible miasma that would be enough to kill a small child. 

Still, Dean’s happy Cas is happy, and, more importantly, he’s proud of him. Cas deserves to be able to let loose for a night. They both do. 

It’s been a crazy year, and now that things are starting to settle down, maybe they can just enjoy one another. Maybe they can be normal and act like every other couple that hasn’t murdered another person. They’ll still be clingy, and Meg may well end up getting a well-timed drink thrown in her face. But things are gonna be good. Dean’s feeling hopeful. 

Cas’ eyes are on Dean’s, little pools of liquid black as he watches him from inches away, painfully young, but old beyond his years. 

“You okay?” Dean asks, pleased to be looking after Cas for a change. “You need anything?”

Cas lifts his head up off the pillow, goes to shake his head, then thinks better of it, says, “No. Thank you.” 

Dean lets his eyes flutter closed for just a moment, relishing the here and now. 

Into the dark, Cas suddenly mumbles, “I’d do anything for you. Not gon’ ‘pologize for that.”

“You never have to, Cas. Never.”

***

The next morning, Dean wakes Cas up with coffee, a bacon sandwich, and some Advil. 

Because he’s an excellent boyfriend and he and Cas are perfect for each other, goddammit. 

Cas groans, burrows deeper under the covers. Until Dean rips them off. Just like Cas has grown fond of doing to him. Revenge is a dish best served cold and all that. “Rise and shine, Mr. Lawyer!”

Another groan from Cas’ fetal position in the middle of their mattress. 

“I’ve got food and coffee,” Dean sing-songs, aiming to tempt. “Painkillers too…”

Over his bare shoulder, blue eyes bloodshot and tired, Cas grunts, “Bacon?”

“Yeahuh.”

“Extra strong coffee?”

“Pretty sure it's gonna gum up your veins.”

That has Cas unfolding and turning over. 

Dean grins as he sits on the edge of the bed, folding his right leg under himself. Cas looks more than a little worse for wear as he shifts so that he’s sitting up with his back to the headboard, supported on pillows like he’s an invalid. And as much as Dean loves to see Cas living the consequences of his drunken actions, last night is still kind of bugging him, and he can feel the smile faltering on his face. 

The fact that so many of their friends are weighing in, and the sheer frequency at which it occurs, is really getting to him. It’s like they’re on a goddamn schedule. When one pesters him at a party, another follows up with a phone call, and so on ad infinitum. 

Sleep shirt bunched up under his armpits, hair all over the place, Cas pauses in his grab for the coffee and tilts his head, all broken baby bird, “What’s wrong?”

Dean briefly considers lying to his boyfriend, but that’ll set an unfortunate precedent, and the one person he never wants to lie to is Cas. “Meg,” he answers.

Cas waits expectantly, unblinking. 

So Dean elaborates as he hands off the mug. “She and the others have been giving me shit lately, saying that we won’t last and that we’re not ‘healthy’.” He borrows Cas’ use of air quotes to make the point.

“The others?” Cas repeats, his expression darkening dangerously, like clouds over California. He puts the untouched coffee on the nightstand, nudging his cell to the edge. “Who? Jo? Benny?”

Dean doesn’t wanna single anyone out (other than Meg), so instead, he simply tells Cas, “It doesn’t matter. I’m just getting real tired of it. I feel like everyone’s against us all the time. Like we’re pushing back against them every day, just by being together, and it’s exhausting having to keep on defending us to people I thought cared about us.”

Cas is quiet for a long moment. For a couple of heartbeats, Dean thinks he’s about to get some epic rant against their friends, maybe even some angry pacing, then a passionate make-out session or something. Instead, Cas leans forward and touches his forehead to Dean’s. “We have something that everybody wants,” Cas says quietly, the words falling soft, his voice barely above a whisper. Like this is just a secret for the two of them to share. “They don’t get it. They’ll never get it.”

“Yeah,” Dean whispers back, almost going cross-eyed trying to look Cas in his baby-blues from this position. There’s something comforting about it, something intimate and personal and _them_. Like Dean and Cas could block out the world and everything would cease to exist if they could just keep doing this forever. 

So naturally, that’s when Cas’ cell begins vibrating on the nightstand. 

Dean breaks the connection, reaching across Cas for the phone, and mutters, “Ugh,” when he sees who’s calling, turning the display to show Cas. “Speak of the devil and the devil shall appear.”

Dean’s not sure who Cas’ dramatic-bitch eye roll is aimed at, but he likes to think it’s Meg and her clingy AF ways. Only Dean’s allowed to be clingy, goddammit. 

Fighting the temptation to be petty and just drop Cas’ phone in the coffee, Dean instead hands it over with a long-suffering sigh. “I’ll go make some more coffee.”

***

After that, the she-devil is _everywhere_. Like she's got a point to prove or something — _he was my best friend first, pretty boy._

And sure, Dean gets it. A little. Cas and Meg are good friends ( _nothing more, nothing more, nothing more_ ), but she really does seem to be taking Dean’s promotion to Cas’ extra limb awfully personal. 

_Maybe she really did think you’d be gone quickly._

Which is something Dean’s not gonna look at too closely; otherwise, he’ll drive himself mad. The implication that Cas has fallen this hard and fast for someone before and then grown tired of them is one that makes Dean’s palms sweaty and his heart ache.

He loves Cas with everything he has, and there’s something in the bone-deep surety of it, the irrevocable, open way in which it makes Dean feel free, that both pacifies and terrifies him.

Because he just can’t lose it. He can’t lose Cas.

With Meg turning up everywhere, it's almost as if he's got a stalker again. One Cas (unfortunately) doesn't want to shoot in the face.

But Dean deals, because she’s Cas’ friend, and as much as Dean wishes for it, he and Cas do not exist in a vacuum. They need to interact with the outside world, especially now that Cas is gonna be a lawyer and needs to make in-roads into that specific circle. 

So Dean keeps attending parties, soirees, whatever, always by Cas’ side, gritting his teeth whenever Meg shows up, ‘cause he knows exactly how it’s gonna go.

It’s not _her_ Cas is going home with and fucking until she cries, and that’s a mantra Dean holds close to his heart, wheeling it out whenever she simpers at Cas and tries for the fifteenth time to grab his attention. 

It’s tiring as hell, but Cas is more than worth it. 

***

The constant phone calls from all of their friends are a solid eighty percent of the reason why Dean doesn’t answer his cell one morning. Last night, he and Cas attended a pre-law society event, and Dean’s much more interested in burying his face into the pillow for another ten minutes of sleep than he is in hearing what Benny’s got to say on codependency and identity and blah blah blah.

Expecting Cas to be next to him, grumbling awake and rolling over, slapping blindly at the nightstand for Dean’s phone, Dean doesn’t move, content to exist in that filmy, flimsy place between wakefulness and sleep. 

He must settle firmly back into blissful unconsciousness at some point though, because the next thing he knows, the bedroom door is getting flung open so hard that it damn near digs a chunk of plaster outta the wall, and really, Cas should be more careful if he wants to get his safety deposit back. 

“Dramatic,” Dean grouches, turning onto his back to face Cas, who’s standing there in the doorway like he’s just run for his life, fully dressed for the outside and chest heaving. “Woah.” Dean sits up, bracing himself on one hand, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes with the other. “What’s going on? Why do you look like you’ve seen a ghost?”

Cas’ expression twists in agony, and Dean’s stomach lurches in response. 

“Dean, Jo’s dead.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to some horror movie roots here, folks. 
> 
> Also, I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.

**Present Day, down by the riverside**

“Dean?”

_Fuck._

He can feel his hand trembling. Every rage-filled cell of his DNA is telling him to just _do it do it do it._ But he can’t. It’s not because he’s a good person; the thoughts going through his head about all the places he wants to stick the blade and twist, are not the thoughts of a good person. 

But those thoughts are not translating to actions. Maybe it’s a misfiring synapse and Dean’s just stuck, caught forever in a frame of inaction. Maybe he’s a coward and this is how his brain is keeping him safe from the knowledge. Maybe it’s the final thread of his morality hanging on in there, frayed and worn thin, but determined not to snap. Benny’s clearly a danger, he hurt Cas, and yet…

It feels _wrong_ , somehow. In a way that killing Ketch never did.

Dean and Benny started the night as friends. They’ve been friends for a long time. That _should_ count for something, no matter how furious Dean is. 

Plus. There _is_ a maniac roaming around. Charlie wasn’t wrong when she said there’s safety in numbers. 

If the maniac attacks, Dean doesn’t have to run faster than her (or him). He just has to run faster than Benny.

So, Dean splits the difference between killing Benny here and now, and helping him up. He folds the blade back in, snatches up the flashlight, and cautiously picks his way past Benny, throwing him a careless, “Hurry the fuck up.” 

Dean’s made his point (for now) and they’ve wasted enough time here. 

He doesn’t wait to see whether Benny manages to get to his feet or not, just plows onward.

Each step is taking him further away from Cas, but each heartbeat brings him closer. 

It’s slow going, following the shoreline. Or it is, until the river widens out and spills into a lake. 

_Shit_. 

Well, that’s just made the chances of them finding their way down the mountain that little bit harder. But a lake could also mean people, right? A phone, some actual medical supplies?

Dean clicks the flashlight on for a second; enough time to take stock of where they are. There’s an old, weathered dock reaching out from the shore, with a diving platform at the end. The platform is lopsided, dipping into the water at one corner. Apparently, one of the drums buoying it up has sprung a leak. 

It’s a pretty big lake; easily a quarter-mile wide and twice as long. From where he’s standing, Dean can’t see any boats on its surface, nor any buildings or other docks along the shoreline. There’s a low-lying mist a couple of feet above the still water; ghost-gray and ominous as fuck.

Any minute now, Dean’s expecting to hear the Jason ki-ki-ki-ma-ma-ma sound effect. 

“Shit,” Benny pants, appearing at Dean’s side. Noticeably, not too close though. He eyes Dean warily. “What now?”

“I don’t know,” Dean answers testily, rubbing at the nape of his neck. His skin is damp and goosefleshy; slick with sweat. “Looks deserted.”

“Doesn’t _anybody_ live around here?” Benny asks quietly, as if afraid to raise his voice in the stillness. 

“Would _you_ wanna live around here?” Dean retorts, switching the flashlight back off. “This place is creepy as fuck.”

“It’s like the whole area has been abandoned.”

“There might be houses; we just can’t see them from here and through this fucking fog.”

Leaving the relative shelter of the forest’s edge, the two of them carefully make their way down to the foot of the dock.

Just to the right, Dean spies what looks like the remains of a beach. The small area slopes down gently to the shore. Weeds and bushes grow there, and the sand is littered with driftwood.

“What now?” Benny asks. “Do we circle the lake?”

“That’ll take hours.”

“What’s the alternative? Wander around in the woods until the sun comes up? Go back to the inn and hope for the best?” 

As much as Dean hates to admit it — and he really really does — Benny’s got a point.

“We could find some help,” Benny wheedles. “There’s a chance that we could find a phone or somethin’.”

This feels like every horror movie trap and trope ever, but what choice do they have?

“It’s our only chance,” Benny says, and damn him, ‘cause he’s fucking right. 

“Fine.”

***

They stay as close to the shoreline as they can, but the terrain is varied. They tromp through undergrowth, ducking under low branches, circling around brambles and deadfalls and boulders that block their way. They climb down and up the sides of shallow slopes and slabs of rock. 

Near the north end of the lake, there’s a narrow outlet. The glassy water reaches north-west at least a hundred yards before it vanishes under a field of reeds and lily pads.

There’s also a new-ish looking sign, hammered into the marshy ground, leaning at a slight angle. 

Flashlight beam focused on it, it reads:

PUBLIC NOTICE

INITIAL STAGE HYDROELECTRIC DAM CONSTRUCTION UNDERWAY FROM 07/13 FOR APPROXIMATELY TWENTY-FOUR WEEKS

**What to expect on-site:**

During the dates above, the general contractor, Diamond Ridge Construction, will drain this lake, divert the flow of the river, clean and excavate the foundation area, and repair rocks and sediments that will act as the foundation. 

In addition, if deemed safe, supports known as rock bolts may be used to strengthen the foundation. 

**Construction hours:** ****

Initial construction will take place Monday - Saturday between the hours of 7 a.m. and 7 p.m.

**Contact information:**

For any construction-related concerns, please contact Devin Carr, advisory administrator for Diamond Ridge Construction, at: 555-549-5289 or email him at: devin.carr@diamondridgeconstruction.com

For any legal concerns, please cont-

The bottom of the sign is vandalized, contact details for the lawyers’ office ripped away and most likely prank-called to death. 

_Huh. Interesting that this place is gonna be one of those environmentally savvy dams._

Dean’s never worked on a dam himself, but he has colleagues who have designed the pipework, valves, and floodgates for hydroelectric dams, so he’s seen the diagrams and blueprints, and therefore has a good idea of what topographical features are required.

He can see why this place has been chosen. 

The fact that anyone put up a notice board in the first place though… that’s gotta be a good sign, right? Surely it means that there are people around here. 

“Woulda been much better for us if construction started this week,” Benny mutters. 

Dean has to agree. If Garth coulda just waited ten days, then Benny and Dean would’ve happened on construction equipment — radios, supplies, etc. They could’ve waited until 7 a.m., knowing that help would arrive.

As it is, they’re shit out of luck again. 

_Seems to be the theme of the night._

“Now what?” Benny asks, watching as Dean turns the flashlight back off. He glances over at the outlet they need to cross. “I’m not fancyin’ our chances in the water.”

Neither’s Dean, but, “It’s simple. We either cross here or go around.”

“Shit.”

_Yeah._

They make their way to the right, walking along the top of a fallen trunk, then hopping down and climbing out on a low clump of rocks where the outlet joins the lake. Benny sits on a boulder, struggling to catch his breath, whilst Dean keeps one eye on him and the other on the edge of the outcropping, attempting to gauge the depth of the outlet. 

He turns the flashlight beam on quickly, points it downwards, but it gives nothing away about what might be lurking just below the surface of the water.

_Fuck it._

Wobbling on one foot, then the other, Dean yanks his boots and socks off, strips out of his shirt, and tucks it — along with his socks, his cell, and the flashlight — into his left boot. He leaves everything on the edge of the rock just in case the water is deeper than it looks. 

Hoping that there ain’t any sharp surprises or Lake Placid critters waiting for him, Dean jumps in feet first. 

It’s cold. Not quite like ice, but enough to steal his breath, leaving him gasping. His bare feet touch the slippery rocks at the bottom. They slide out from under him, but he grabs a gulp of air before his head plunges into the cold. 

_Jesus H. Christ._

He pushes upward, breaking the surface with an airless wheeze, managing to find his footing before he goes under again. 

“F-fuck,” he shivers out, standing in water that covers him up to his neck. 

He’s not wasting time freezing his ass off, so he reaches for his boots, holding them overhead as he begins to cross to the other side. Halfway across, the water level starts to lower. It uncovers his shoulders, descends his back. When it reaches his waist, he turns around to face Benny. “You coming?”

Benny looks down at his own boots. He crouches, undoing his laces slowly and methodically, not taking his eyes off of Dean the whole time.

The shiver that quakes down Dean’s spine has nothing to do with the temperature of the water.

He turns back, keeps pushing onward. Cas is waiting for him. He's not gonna let him down. 

Behind him, Dean hears the splash of Benny entering the water, feels the ripples. He takes vicious pleasure in Benny’s stuttered gasp of “H-holy s-shit, that’s f-fuckin’ cold!”

At the other side, Dean climbs out, boosting himself onto the rocks. Sitting there, he shoves his sockless feet back into the boots, laces them up. As he stands, he accidentally catches the handle of the flashlight with the heel of his boot, sending it spinning across the rock. It teeters at the edge for a split-second, before falling in with a controlled-sounding plop.

He glances heavenward. _Seriously?_

With a sigh, Dean wraps his cell in his socks and tucks them into the front pocket of his wet jeans, and his shirt into the back pocket, leaving it draping down his ass and thigh. 

Outside of the water, it’s not so bad. The air in the aftermath of the storm is less cloying and heavy than before, but mild enough that Dean’s not gonna freeze without his shirt on.

Not bothering to wait for Benny, he hikes into the shadows of the forest, making his way through the trees at the northern end of the lake. He walks for a good few minutes, following the curve of the shore, until in the gloom ahead, he spies some sort of platform surrounded by a railing of split wood. Wooden stairs lead down to the sloping ground at Dean’s level.

_A porch?_

Dean crouches behind a tree trunk. Now seems like a good time to put his shirt back on — ‘cause whatever’s about to come next requires both caution and shirts — so he does, yanking it out from his rear pocket and dragging it on over his head.

This could be help, or it could be a mountain hillbilly with a wreath for a family tree, wanting to crack their heads open and enjoy some brain soup.

Twigs snap behind him, and Dean raises his hand to warn Benny. Seconds later, he feels Benny’s breath on his neck and the heat of his body too close. It has Dean’s skin prickling with unease and his spine straightening, but he ignores it for now. One thing at a time.

Beyond the porch looms what looks like a log cabin. The bark of the cabin’s walls blends in with the trunks of nearby trees. Its roof — if it has one — is hidden under a canopy of branches and leaves, practically a part of the forest at this point. 

_Well, that’s not creepy at all._

“Y’see anyone?” Benny whispers.

Dean shakes his head. Staying low, he dashes forward about fifteen feet and crouches behind another tree. Benny follows.

From this position, Dean can see a couple of old sheds behind the cabin. Surrounded by what once would have been a lush, sunlit garden, and is now just a decaying patch of unattended, overgrown land, the sheds themselves have fallen into obvious disrepair.

It doesn’t look like anybody has lived here for years. 

_Although, that said…_

In front of the cabin, some distance beyond the end of its porch, is a rusted long-handled pump. But it’s what’s beyond that, down the fifty feet or so of ground that slopes to the lake, that grabs Dean’s attention. A weathered rowboat floats under the droopy limbs of a willow, moored to a small dock that juts out a few feet from the shore. A block of concrete serves as an anchor. The boat’s oars lie across the bow and center beach seats.

 _Could be useful for making a quick escape across the lake._

“What are you thinkin’?” Benny asks.

“I’m thinking that Jason’s about to come storming out of that cabin door any second,” Dean mutters, fishing in his pocket for his multi-tool.

Benny huffs a laugh. “Don’t think that little pigsticker would be any use against him.”

Not on its own, anyways. 

Dean glances around the base of the tree. He spots a rock half-hidden under the matted leaves and grabs it. It’s a chip of granite as large as his hand, shaped roughly like the head of a hatchet.

Benny picks up a broken limb. At a couple inches thick and nearly a yard long, it could inflict a decent amount of damage if necessary. Dean’s not exactly comfortable with Benny having a weapon, but he’s less comfortable with getting killed by a stranger. 

“Ready?” Dean checks.

“As I’ll ever be.”

They step out from behind the tree, and with Dean leading the way, they begin to circle around to the rear of the cabin. The wall has a single dirty window, with a rusted screen hanging by its last hinge. 

Dean keeps his eyes on it, fearing that a face might suddenly loom out of the darkness and push against the screen.

Luckily, nothing happens. 

They pass the rear corner of the cabin.

There are two windows, one on either side of the back door. Wooden stairs connect the weather-battered door to a path that leads through the center of the garden and into the woods.

Scanning the area, Dean sees no one. 

“No flashlight?” Benny asks. 

“It’s at the bottom of the lake.”

Benny grunts his acknowledgment, and seconds later, there’s a weak cone of light over Dean’s shoulder. He turns his head enough to catch Benny’s cell phone flashlight in his periphery, then faces front again. 

The two of them keep moving until they reach one of the sheds. It looks like an outhouse, with its flimsy, handleless door, only latched shut by a hook and eye. 

Dean repockets his multi-tool, shifts the rock to his right hand. Using his left, Dean flicks up the hook. The door swings open, groaning on its ancient hinges.

The draft of its opening sweeps out a miasma of hot, foul air. 

Inside, spots of rust-colored blood form a trail that dead-ends at a bench with a hole in it. A swarm of flies buzzes over the recently eviscerated corpse of some poor animal. Entrails and blood slop from the bench to the floor. 

_Fucking hell._

“That looks fresh,” Benny points out, turning his head away to breathe air that doesn’t reek of copper and viscera. “Couple hours old, maybe.”

_Somebody’s been here at some point tonight._

Arm over his nose, Benny closes the door and hooks it shut. 

Trying to breathe through his nausea, Dean goes to investigate the other shed. Thankfully, it’s completely empty.

“Looks like we’re heading inside the cabin,” Dean mutters to Benny, leading them back around to the porch steps. 

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Benny asks, and no, no, Dean’s pretty sure it’s the very opposite, but the pickings are getting slimmer and slimmer, and if there’s an inkling of a chance for getting Cas help, then Dean’s gonna take it. 

“Unless your cell has suddenly got reception, we’re going in.”

There’s no verbal response, and that’s all the confirmation Dean needs. 

Slowly, they climb the stairs, trying to avoid the creaks, but the boards are loose and old; there’s no chance of not making a symphony of moans and groans. Luckily, it doesn't manifest anybody wielding a machete. 

Dean peers inside the right window, cupping his free hand over his eyes. 

He can’t see anything; the pane is too grimy and cobwebby, and it’s too dark.

Benny holds the screen door open on bouncy, squeaky hinges, and Dean takes it from him. The door behind it is open, which bodes almost as well as the hours-old animal carcass.

_Shit._

Squinting into the gloom, Dean holds his breath, waiting for the heavy stomp of Mr. Vorhees or some Hills Have Eyes mutation.

Nothing.

They step over the threshold. The hot, heavy air smells sweet and musty. The screen door snaps shut behind them. 

Somehow, it’s even darker inside, the moonlight not reaching in through the back windows, with the front ones apparently shaded by overhanging trees. 

They shuffle into the room, Benny’s cell phone light not doing much to cut through the pitch black. Dean holds his hands out in front of himself, concerned that sooner or later he’s gonna end up molesting the face of some Unabomber type. 

It doesn’t happen. Nothing does. At least, not until Dean’s halfway across the room and the toe of his boot kicks something metallic.

“Over here,” Dean orders. “I need the light.”

Benny’s there a moment or two later, standing shoulder to shoulder with Dean. He aims the light down at Dean’s feet.

_What the fuck?_

In the center of the room, there’s a Coleman lantern. Just sitting there in the middle of all the loose floorboards, like it’s been waiting for them.

Dean takes the phone from Benny and drops down to his haunches to inspect the lantern. It doesn't look like it’s gonna explode Saw-trap style, but it’s all a bit too convenient. He glances over his shoulder at Benny, who’s inspecting the cabin, still clutching his branch like a weapon, and Dean’s unease spikes. Something about all this just screams _trap_ , and Benny seems awfully at peace with it all. Dean’s voice is a paper-thin rasp when he asks, “Should I light it?”

Benny’s attention jerks to him. “I guess?”

 _Helpful._

Breath held, he reaches out and twists the nozzle protruding from the base. The gas hisses loudly and, within seconds, the lantern’s twin mantles glare to life behind the glass chimney. 

The intense white that fills the room is too bright for Dean, and he shields his eyes instinctively, giving them a moment to adjust and mentally prepare for what the light is gonna reveal.

Though, nothing could’ve prepared him for this.

_Holy Christing fuck._

The walls are _covered_ in pictures of Dean. Just plastered everywhere, thousands of them, floor to ceiling, like that scene in One Hour Photo.

“Oh my god,” Benny murmurs, spinning in place. He absent-mindedly accepts his phone back when Dean hands it off in his vague direction. “What on earth?”

_What is this?_

The photos aren’t just ones from tonight and Dean’s college years, oh no. There are photos from every year in between. Dean at age twenty-five outside his then-apartment, Dean at age thirty-one on his way to work, Dean just last week, walking home with grocery bags.

Unlike the other pictures, there’s no obvious sexual connotations to these. No proprietorial overtones. Just creepy candids, like someone checking in. 

Dean pushes to his feet and steps closer to the east wall, holding the lantern up so he can see properly. He stares at the image of his own face, at the snapshots of his life over the last fourteen years, little moments in time captured forever. He looks sad in pretty much every single one, hollow and tired, like he’s going through the motions. 

Except for the one taken tonight, when he was leaving the pool with Cas.

Dean tosses his rock onto the hip-high, empty table underneath one of the front windows to his right, then fishes in his rear jeans pocket for his copy of the pool photo. It’s waterlogged and the edges are beginning to curl, but the image remains unchanged. With a shaking hand, Dean holds it up against the other one. 

The one on the wall isn’t quite the same. Taken a hair later by Dean’s estimation, but his smile is bright and genuine in both. 

Something wraps itself tight around Dean’s ribcage and squeezes. 

The difference is so stark that it’s like a physical ache in his chest. It reaffirms everything Dean’s been thinking tonight: about him and Cas, about how his decision to walk away ten years ago was the wrong one. 

“Hear me out,” Benny says quietly, his calculating blue eyes on Dean. “It’s just clicked what’s been botherin’ me.”

Boy, oh fucking boy, Dean can’t wait to hear this.

Dean doesn’t say anything. He silently scans over the photos, doing his best to catalog what’s here, what’s missing, and what it all means.

So far, he’s got a big fat steaming pile of nothing. 

“Let’s just say I’m tellin’ the truth—” At that, Dean shoots Benny a look that he hopes conveys how ridiculous he finds the statement. “—Just, for once, please, Dean. If you’ve ever cared about me at all.”

Dean sighs, “Alright. In this fairy world where princes and knights in shining armor are real, let’s imagine you’re telling the truth and you didn’t hurt Cas at all.” He makes a loose gesture with the photo in his hand, before he replaces it in his back pocket. “Go on.”

“I didn’t hurt him, but he’s hurt, right?”

Dean’s seen Cas’ injuries with his own eyes. There’s no disputing it. He clenches his jaw, nods. “Right.”

“So, if we’re believing me, that must mean somebody else hurt him. Or. He hurt himself.”

Dean tenses. Benny holds his free hand out, palm up. “Hear me out, alright?” He slowly lowers the branch to the floor, then rises again, showing Dean his now empty hand. For all the world, he looks like some kind of hostage negotiator who’s about to impart some super bad news about that escape jumbo jet Dean requested, along with twenty pepperoni pizzas.

Dean places the lantern onto the table next to the rock. This is gonna end in tears. Most likely Benny’s. “Fine.”

“It’s pretty safe to say that if it was somebody else, he woulda said, right? Surely, if it was whoever’s been stalking us around the hotel, then he woulda said who that person was. Save us all the bother.”

In this hypothetical situation, Dean agrees. 

“The only conclusion I keep coming back to is that he wanted to frame me. I mean, it’s perfect, right? He frames me, turnin’ you — and everyone else — against me.”

It seems like an awful lot of trouble to go to in order to show Benny’s a dick, when he went and did it all by himself anyways. “So, what you’re saying — hypothetically, of course — is that Cas beat himself up, fucking Fight Club style, to make us all hate you or some shit? Why? What would be the point?”

“I dunno. Maybe he saw the way we were earlier and didn’t like it. Wanted to make sure that I didn’t come between you two again.”

“So, you admit you _did_ come between us.”

“In his eyes at least, yeah. He probably thinks the same about all of us. I know you felt the same way in the beginning too, even though we were just worried about you.”

Dean drops his chin to his chest with a sigh. 

_Here we go again._

Perhaps sensing that he’s lost Dean already, Benny course-corrects, trying another angle. “How did Cas find you earlier at the pool after I left you? Did he say?”

Dean’s pretty sure that his expression conveys precisely how _done_ he is with this mindfuckery. He answers flatly, “You told him where I was.”

Benny’s eyes round out with surprise. “I assure you I didn’t. I didn’t even see him on my way back inside. Which means that he must’ve followed us. He saw us being pally, goofin’ off. Mistook it for somethin’ it definitely wasn’t.”

No. No way. Why would Cas lie?

_He wouldn’t._

But then again...

If Benny’s right and Cas saw the two of them, the chances of him coming clean about it are precisely zero. Cas and Dean have always been caught in this crazy-jealous powerplay, and Dean loves it just as much now as he did back in college. That level of obsession has always turned his crank like nothing else, has been the foundation of why he’s stayed the hell away all these years. Because he knew, he _fucking knew_ that the second he allowed even the tiniest sliver of it to break through that partition wall in his mind, he’d be catapulted all the way back to that dangerous place where Cas is everything and everything is Cas. After years of him and Cas not being together, experiencing all this craziness first-hand again — instead of merely reliving the memories like worn-through film — is breathing air back into his lungs. The last ten years have felt like stasis; stale and a wash of gray, when he could’ve been living his life in color. 

The proof is in the psychopathy, ‘cause Dean’s slowly-but-surely finding it pretty hard to care about anything other than being with Cas again.

Misinterpreting Dean’s silence for either agreement or at least a minuscule crack in his otherwise impenetrable belief in Cas, Benny army-crawls into it with a knife between his teeth. “How was he when he caught up with you?”

Dean’s mind reels back like a slide projector. Cas was possessive and hot and punishing. All the things he used to be when Dean had wound him tighter than a watch spring. 

It _could_ be attributed to them having been eye-fucking and married-couple-bickering all afternoon and night. Dean had deliberately goaded Cas. It wouldn’t be surprising if he snapped because of that.

But. Benny’s almost certainly right. 

Cas saw them and reacted how he’s always reacted when he sees Dean flirting with somebody else.

_Fuck._

This is so fucked up. As a kid, he couldn’t recognize it — probably didn’t want to; it’s a big and scary thing to deal with — but as an adult with time and space away from their codependency, Dean understands that it’s dangerous and intoxicating, what he and Cas have. It’s why he let the others, Benny in particular, talk him around every time he was getting too deep again. The difference now is that he’s not sure he cares anymore. 

So maybe Cas followed them and lied about it. It doesn’t matter.

“He was fine,” Dean lies. “And if you’re tryna insinuate otherwise, then that’s on you, man. I’m not sure where you’re going with all this, but it’s not gonna make me forget what you did to him. Not at all.”

“I didn’t do _anything_ to him.”

Dean whirls on Benny, sick of his ex-friend and this fucking campaign he’s always fronted against Cas and Dean. “Don’t lie to me! I know you did! Who else woulda done it, huh? You think Cas did that shit to himself? Fucked the whole group over just to get at you? Jesus H. Christ, Benny, you’re so full of yourself! You admitted that you fucking shoved him — it’s not exactly a stretch that he got hurt when he fell. But no, it’s gotta be some great big goddamn conspiracy against you! Cas is your friend, man, and you treat him like this? You think he’d do something like this? Some fucking friend you are.”

“He’s fucked in the head!” Benny yells back, getting into Dean’s space. “How can everybody else see it but you, huh, Dean? You’re not dumb, not at all, but that fucker is your damn blindspot!”

_Everybody else?_

He shouldn’t be surprised that the others think Cas is fucked up or whatever, but it still kinda hurts. As always, it’s the two of them against the world. Nobody understands them. They don’t even try. 

The realization has something bitter and hot, bile-like, rising up his throat. 

They just don’t fucking get it. 

Benny’s still going in the face of Dean’s angry silence, and really, he’s digging his own grave. “You need help, the both of you. If we get outta here alive, you really need to check in somewhere.”

_He talking about a mental institution?_

Dean grins through the cage of his teeth. “I’m crazy, huh? Convenient, that.”

Exasperated, Benny sighs on a hot breath, “It’s understandable. You’ve been traumatized. Like I said, you need help. And I’ll make sure you get it.”

_Oh, really?_

“Yeah? How you gonna do that, Benny? _Make sure?_ You’re gonna turn Cas and me in? Have us both committed or in jail?”

Benny’s jaw clenches, and the way he’s avoiding meeting Dean’s eyes is all the tell Dean needs.

_Huh._

Well, alright then. “Here’s what _I_ know. There’s someone who’s got it in for me and Cas. And _you_ definitely have it in for Cas, as well as a crush on me. Y’see what I’m saying, Benny?”

It’s not a threat so much as a statement. 

Luckily, Benny’s a quick study. “You think it’s me doing all this?”

Dean lifts a shoulder in a careless shrug. “Why not? Makes a hell of a lot more sense than Cas.” He gestures to his right at the snapshot of him and Cas outside the pool building. “You were there, you coulda taken that photo. You coulda taken all these.”

“This is ridiculous!”

“Not really. You’re violently jealous. That much is clear. It’s gotta be you, man. That’s what I’ll tell the cops, at least. Tale as old as time: you’re in love with me, I didn’t feel the same. I fell in love with somebody else, which sent you on a downward spiral. You admitted yourself that you were stalking me in college—”

Benny opens his mouth to defend himself, but Dean cuts him off. “‘Following me home’, whatever. Semantics. I mean, you gotta admit, it’s kinda suspicious; you were there in the Botanical Garden, you knew about the party just a few hours after it happened, you had this theory about how Ketch died, but never went to the cops…” Dean clicks his tongue, “Maybe that’s why you took all these photos. Like a private eye or some shit, keeping tabs on me throughout the years. Or was it just your obsession with me? Maybe a little of column A, a little of column B, huh? And as for tonight? Well, us being here wasn’t really working out for you. You saw how me an’ Cas were drifting back together, so you decided to take it out on him. Sound about right?”

The more Dean posits and rambles, the more unfortunate, fucked up sense it all makes.

Benny had the means, motive, and opportunity. Why couldn’t it be Benny?

_Jesus fuck. It’s gotta be Benny. Right?_

“Dean,” Benny’s saying, but Dean’s brain is busy running wild, considering all their interactions over the years from each and every angle. “Dean, it’s not me, for fuck’s sake! It’s him!”

“Nah,” he says stone-cold calm, eyes dragging up to meet Benny’s. “It’s you.”

This isn’t even about revenge for Cas anymore. This is about protecting them both. 

The multi-tool is in his hand before he can talk himself around, and Benny’s gaze drops to it. 

He holds his palms up and begins backing away like he’s placating a rabid dog. “Dean, no.” 

Dean doesn’t stop. In the absolute best scenario, where Benny turns out not to be the stalker or the maniac who’s after them now, he’s still gonna turn Dean and Cas in. Dean’s not going to jail, and neither is Cas. 

“Fuck,” Benny blurts, seconds before he throws a punch that barely connects with Dean’s shoulder. Dean laughs. 

“Gonna have to do better than that, man. Is it ‘cause my back isn’t turned? Can’t get in a cheap shot from this angle?”

“Dean, c’mon, don’t do this,” Benny pleads, and Dean seizes the opportunity to dart forward with the multi-tool. 

With a deft arm, Benny knocks it out of his hand, sending it flying, tumbling end over end. It lands a few feet away, and in the time Dean’s distracted watching its trajectory, Benny gets in a right hook just underneath Dean’s ribs. 

_Yet another suckerpunch._

Still, at least Benny’s finally getting with the program, so Dean swings back, his fist connecting with Benny’s cheekbone with a satisfying crunch.

Benny half-turns, like he’s gonna make a grab for the knife, so Dean slams into him, sending them both to the filthy cabin floor. Benny grunts under the impact. Dean hooks one arm around Benny’s throat from behind and squeezes. His other arm stretches out sideways, grabbing the wrist of Benny’s left hand, the one reaching for the multi-tool. Dean tries to keep it pinned to the ground as he chokes Benny. 

Benny bucks and writhes underneath Dean, threatening to unbalance him. He digs his chin into Dean’s forearm, both of them grunting with exertion and struggling against one another. The multi-tool is still out of reach for both of them, but Dean’s taking no chances. Benny shoves himself upward with his right arm, his body rising and tilting. Starting to slide, Dean swings a leg over Benny’s hip.

Together, they roll, grasping and shoving until Benny comes down on top of Dean, his shoulder blade catching Dean in the chest.

“Bet this is what you always wanted, Benny, huh?” Dean taunts through the grit of his teeth. He hooks his leg over Benny’s, tries to tighten his stranglehold around Benny’s neck. “Me, you, a dirty floor in the middle of nowhere.”

In response, Benny pries Dean’s arm away from his throat. In a move that Dean’s not entirely proud of, he bites down on the nearest piece of Benny’s skin he can find, which turns out to be his ear. Benny yelps, letting go of Dean’s arm, and drives his elbow down. It catches Dean just below the armpit. At the shock of pain, Dean’s mouth falls open and he releases Benny’s ear, but regains his hold on Benny’s throat. Benny’s elbow punches him a second time. And a third. A fourth. He keeps bringing it down, pounding Dean’s side. Each blow weakens Dean’s grip, sapping his strength.

Dean glances around the cabin floor. He can barely make out the multi-tool in the shadows, further away from them now since they’ve rolled, but one look above, at the table a couple of feet away, reveals the rock he tossed up there earlier. If he can just get Benny’s weight off him, he’ll be able to reach it.

Forcing himself to let go of Benny, allowing him to push Dean’s arm away from his throat, Dean lays on his back whilst Benny disentangles their limbs. 

Dean waits until Benny is on his hands and knees at Dean’s side, panting, one hand cupping his sore throat, before he sits up and grabs the rock. 

Benny glances up at him, his eyes darting to the weapon clutched tight and raised high. “I didn’t... do it,” he pants, face twisted in despair. 

“Like fuck,” Dean snarls and brings the rock down against Benny’s temple. He smashes it into Benny’s head again and again, like a man possessed. He has to scoot closer on his knees when Benny collapses, but he keeps going, doesn’t stop, just continues bringing the sharp edge of the rock into contact with flesh and blood and skull, until the rage fizzles into a kind of bleak numbness.

_Shit._

His former friend is virtually unrecognizable, head and neck coated in crimson, his chest rising and falling in a jagged rhythm. 

_Might as well finish what you started._

This is his opportunity to make things right between him and Cas. This is Dean doing the right thing for them. It _has_ to be the right thing. 

Dean drags Benny to his knees, almost tearing the collar of his blood-soaked shirt. It reminds Dean of the fight Cas had with Ketch all those years ago, and the symmetry of it has Dean’s sense of righteousness burning brighter.

Benny’s not fighting anymore, barely conscious, so Dean hauls him out of the cabin’s front door, down the steps, and then down the slope to the lake. With the sole of his boot, Dean shoves Benny off the makeshift dock and into the water. Exhausted, he collapses to his hands and knees at the edge of the rotten boards. 

Still panting, he peers into the water. Benny’s nowhere to be seen. The lake has a clean, glass-like surface, undisturbed, reflecting the moon, completely sinister in its tranquility.

A couple of seconds pass. 

Then, like Jason fucking Vorhees at the end of the first Friday 13th movie, Benny bursts forth from the lake and grabs ahold of Dean, hands clamping around the back of his neck and dragging him into the water headfirst. 

The shock of the cold water steals the breath from Dean’s lungs all over again as he gracelessly pushes against the resistance. He’s never been a strong swimmer, and now, in the pitch black, he can’t tell which way is up and which way is down. Benny has let him go, but Dean has no idea where the fucker is; if he’s swimming right up behind him, like freakin’ jaws or whether his last hurrah was hauling Dean in. 

Finally, Dean breaks the surface with burning lungs, gasping and shivering. He scans the darkness for a sight of Benny. 

Nothing. 

“Benny!” he chokes out.

Aside from his own splashing as he treads water, Dean can hear nothing. 

Benny’s gone.

Dean swims to the dock and drags himself out on shaky arms. He flops onto his back with a wet thwap and lies there, staring up at the inky sky, waiting for his breathing to regulate. 

***

He stays at the lake for a little while, watching, waiting to see if Benny resurfaces. 

He never does. He’s well and truly gone, and tears burn hot at the back of Dean’s eyes, frustration, resentment, and fear threatening to brim over, the victorious flare in his chest double-edged. He blinks the tears away, swiping angrily at the couple that escape with the back of his hand.

By the time he feels physically able to move, his emotions are in check.

Maybe a little too much, ‘cause as he’s collecting up the multi-tool, wiping his prints off of the lantern, and disposing of the murder weapon in the lake, he starts calmly practicing what the hell he’s gonna tell the others when he gets back.

He says to himself, “I pushed him, guys. That’s all. He was getting up in my face and I shoved him out of the way.”

Nope. Doesn’t sound any more plausible coming out of his mouth than it did Benny’s. 

_Dammit._

There’s no way Charlie and Garth will believe it was an accident. Not knowing what they know about Dean and Cas. They’ll think it was deliberate. That Dean held him underwater and watched him die or some shit. They already think the two of them are insane. Benny disappearing on Dean’s watch could be the last straw. 

Fuck.

Cas will believe him though. Or he won’t care and will side with Dean either way.

Two against two. 

Is Dean really thinking about this?

Charlie and Garth are his friends.

_Yeah, and they were already going to turn you in for killing Arthur Ketch._

No. They wouldn’t.

_Even if that’s true, there’s no way you’ll get away with killing Benny._

California is a death penalty state. So’s Pennsylvania.

_Fuck._

He could lie? Say Benny found help?

_Then they’d be expecting help to arrive. And when it didn’t? Back to square one. In fact, it’d be worse. ‘Cause the fact that you tried to cover it up is absolutely the guiltiest thing you could do._

But something could’ve happened to Benny when he was with the help? Some crazy cannibal with a meat hook? 

_Genius. A horror movie cliche for a horror movie cliche._

Maybe Dean could tell them everything up to a point. The best lies are rooted in truth. He could say about the lake, the cabin, the photos, but then, somebody was at the cabin, grabbed Benny, and ran off? Dean managed to hide, didn’t see who it was, but he figured the best thing to do was to go back to the hotel to warn everyone? 

_Yeah, that works._

He doesn’t know precisely what time it is, but it can’t be far from sunrise now. Maybe four, five in the morning. It’ll be light in an hour or two, and they can make their way down the mountain then. However long it takes. 

_After which, Charlie and Garth can turn you in._

No, he and Cas will figure something else out before that happens. They have to. One thing at a time.

First things first; he’s gotta get back to the others. And fast. Whatever the fuck is going on here is a two-person job, ‘cause Benny was there with them when they all heard the pipe-banging, and he was inside the hotel when someone planted the picture of Dean and Cas outside the pool building.

Dean picks up the block of concrete used to anchor the rowboat. He drops it in the bow. Holding the edge of the boat steady, Dean climbs in, crouching low and sitting on the center bench seat. He fits the first oar into the metal U of the oarlock, then the second. 

_Shit. Need a push-off._

With a sigh, Dean unclicks one of the oars and hopes against hope that using it to push away from the shore will be enough. Otherwise, he’s gonna have to get out and push himself. And he absolutely does _not_ want to get back in that water.

In perhaps the first thing that’s gone right tonight, the oar does the job, and the boat glides away from the dock.

With both oars in position again, Dean leans forward to dip them in, drawing the blades through the water and starting over again. 

The slate-gray lake is still calm, but foggy, so Dean blindly steers, just hoping he’ll hit the other end of the shoreline at some point.

He doesn’t dare look back. He’s not sure he could face it if he saw Benny dead. Definitely couldn’t face it if he saw him alive. 

_Jeez._

On the other side of the lake, Dean can just about make out the faint shape of the dock with the diving platform, but he wants to try and get as close as possible to where the river and lake meet, so that he’ll be nearer the hotel. He steers the boat to the right, fighting against the current, which is gaining strength with every inch he rows closer to the river. 

Up ahead, Dean catches sight of movement in the trees. A flash of what looks suspiciously like blue jeans amongst the leafy green and earthy brown. 

_What the fuck._

Somebody’s out here watching him? 

At this point, after _everything_ , he shouldn’t be surprised, but the shock of it still feels like he’s been clobbered with a two-by-four. 

Whoever is out there seems to be moving away from the lake, going toward the hotel. 

They wanted him to see the cabin, and now they want him to see this too. 

_Oh, holy fuck. Cas._

They want Dean to see them hurting Cas.

And if the others get in the way? It doesn’t bear thinking about, even if it’s all that’s going through Dean’s mind right now.

He redoubles his efforts, his muscles burning as he fights to get to the shore. 

There’s a small cove, protected from the current by the way the curve of the shore juts out, and Dean aims for it. There’s another boat moored there, shielded from view by a jagged, overhanging slab of rock.

This must be how blue jeans has been getting back and forth. ‘Cause it took Benny and Dean a good couple of hours to get around the lake. Getting across it in the boat? Maybe fifteen, twenty minutes. 

Holy hell. 

A lot of planning has gone into whatever the fuck all this is.

At the shore now, Dean moors the rowboat next to its twin, and has to perform a hop-leap up onto the rock. Breathing harsh and blood pounding in his ears, Dean sets off into the woods. Thankfully, he comes upon the path back to the inn pretty quickly. It doesn’t take him long to find his way past their camping spot, and from there, it’s no time at all until he’s stepping out onto the slope at the edge of the grounds. 

He squints, trying to see the person in the blue jeans, Cas, Charlie, or Garth. Maybe watching from the doorway or by the pool house.

But there’s nobody. 

He trudges up the incline, boots squeaking and bones tired. He’s about halfway there when a loud and explosive sound splinters the sky.

_The fuck?_

It’s closely followed by another one. 

_Gunshots?_

The next sound is a female scream. One that Dean heard earlier, but now it’s drenched in panic. 

_Charlie._

Dean pushes off into a run. He bolts across the lot, past the car and the shattered glass. He’s still fifty feet from the bottom of the porch steps when he glimpses a flash of red hair. 

“Charlie!” he yells, running faster. 

There’s another shot. Two. Three. 

In the doorway fully now, Charlie bucks like she’s been electrocuted — or shot — and from one second to the next, she’s staggering down the stairs, crimson soaking her shirt, dripping to the ground.

Heart in his mouth, Dean yells again, “Charlie!”, rushing toward her to catch her like he did in the forest with Cas. 

They collide at the bottom of the steps and she crumples against him, barely conscious. 

She’s bleeding profusely, her eyelashes fluttering against pale, blood-drained skin, and Dean tries to stem the bleeding, cupping his palm over a wound on her abdomen. It’s no use against the deluge, and Dean swallows around the lump in his throat, trying to navigate the overwhelming sense of helplessness as he stares down at his friend bleeding out in his arms. It hurts, like a knife getting shoved between his ribs, deep and lethal. " _Charlie_.”

He can see her eyes moving behind her lids, like REM sleep, but nowhere as peaceful, and something horrific abruptly occurs to Dean. 

_Garth._ **_Cas._ **

Oh, fuck. What does he do? 

Charlie chokes, blood spurting from her mouth in a thick, movie-like ooze.

_Fuckfuckfuck._

Dean hears the hollow sound of footsteps on the wooden porch. He looks up past the boots and blue jeans, and into a familiar face. 

“Hey, pretty boy. So glad you could make it.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're in the homestretch now, my dudes.

** End of junior year, UC Berkeley **

Jo's death marks a watershed moment in Dean’s life. There’s everything before she died and everything after. Everything before, Dean locks up in a clear box inside of himself. He can look at it, glance at it in passing, but it’s safe. It can’t get to him and he can’t get to it. 

It’s like it all happened to somebody else.

Which means that when the waves of grief and guilt do come, they’re softer; less likely to wear him down when he stays protected behind the self-built perspex panels that keep them from touching him. From even coming near him.

In fact, the only thing in the world that he allows to come near him is Cas. Dean clings to him, holds on for dear life, like if he lets go, he’ll drown. 

The others stop overtly trying to crowbar the two of them apart, giving up and letting Dean take his comfort where he can get it. 

So he buries himself in Cas, only coming up for air to attend his finals in a fugue state, on autopilot and numb-brained. 

He thinks about Jo’s last moments a lot. What did she see? What did she feel? The cops have yet to track down the driver who plowed into her at seventy miles per hour in a thirty miles per hour zone.

But then, it’s not like he expected much. They barely lifted a finger to help _him_ when he needed it. 

Sometimes, in Dean’s more selfish moments, Jo’s death feels like a punishment from the universe. Karmic retribution. Rebalancing the scales after Ketch.

Does death keep score like that? If the Final Destination movies are to be believed, the answer is a resounding yes.

Yet more reason to hold on tightly to Cas.

Dean and Cas present a united front to the universe. If it wants them, it can come and get them _(except don’t, please, actually, because Dean wouldn’t survive a world without Cas in it, wouldn’t want to)._

At Jo’s funeral, Dean delivers his eulogy with his shaking hand in Cas’, his aching heart in his throat, and his wretched soul in tatters.

Afterward, Jo’s mom, Ellen, thanks him, like he didn’t spend that last year ignoring her baby in favor of the man standing silently next to him. Dean smiles wanly, goes through the motions, and then thankfully it’s summer and he can breathe again. 

He makes excuse after excuse why Sammy can’t come and visit: _‘Cas is sick, I’m sick, you don’t wanna be around us anyways, Sammy.’_

Not one of those is a lie.

But he pushes all that shit down, lets Cas use their last undergrad summer to heal him, lets Cas fill in the spaces between the jagged pieces of him with his love. 

Dean adores being the center of Cas’ attention again, the two of them hyper-focused and hyper-fixated on one another. It’s pretty amazing to just fall into it without any of the guilt or pressure from their friends. 

Not that he’s glad Jo’s gone, ‘cause he’s obviously _not_. Just. Now that she is, Dean and Cas get the breathing space to be themselves, without everyone feeling like their relationship is public property that needs outside contributors and opinions. 

And Dean never has to tell Cas about Jo’s ‘somebody’s done you a favor’ theory. 

***

It’s hot as fuck today. Like, sitting-in-your-underwear-in-your-apartment-with-the-crappy-AC-cranked-up-but-you’re-still-sweating-kinda-hot.

They’re on their couch, Dean stretched out so that his feet are touching Cas’ bare thigh. Cas is sitting straight-backed and working through his applications for law schools, trying to decide which one deserves him. 

Nowhere, nobody, not in Dean’s opinion. He’s too good for them all. 

Dean turns away from studying his boyfriend for an entire second to shoot a sidelong glance at whatever’s happening on the TV. 

Nothing of note — some sports team just scored — and so Dean returns his gaze to the place it matters. He stares at Cas, the asymmetrical beauty of him. 

Dean’s been called pretty and beautiful his entire life, but the words have always rung hollow. He’s pretty and beautiful because that’s all people see, all he’s ever allowed people to see. But Cas has seen the worst of him, and he’s stayed. He sees past it all, everything Dean presents himself as, and he fucking _stayed._

Dean wants to do the same for him. Wants to say that he’s seen the good, the bad, and the ugly. Wants to prove that he’s here to stay. Wants to prove that he sees the beauty in Cas beyond the physical.

He doesn’t know where to start. They already share their darkest secret with one another. There’s nothing that could bind them tighter, but Dean needs to show Cas that he sees him, that he loves him for everything he is. 

“How come you never talk about your parents?” Dean asks, toes flexing against Cas’ warm skin.

Cas’ pen stutters over the loopy sentence he’s writing. He doesn’t look up.

“Cas?” Dean pushes up onto his elbows. 

“I’ve never seen the point in talking about them,” Cas says tonelessly. “They’re dead and have been for almost ten years now. There’s nothing else to say.”

It’s come up before that Cas is an orphan, but this is the first time Dean’s gotten anything beyond that, because Cas always shuts down whenever Dean tries to talk about it.

_Ten years ago. Cas would’ve been what, thirteen, fourteen?_

Dean’s lost a parent himself, been left with the crappy one, but he can’t begin to imagine the pain of losing both. And especially at such a young age.

“Shit,” Dean sits up, pulling his feet outta Cas’ lap and folding forward to drag his boyfriend into a hug, hyper-aware of all the sticky-hot places they touch. “I’m so sorry, man.”

Cas is stiff and doesn’t hug properly back. 

Dean pulls away, tries to catch his eye, “You okay? I’m sorry for bringing it up, I just—” he cuts himself off, pauses, regroups. ‘Cause, this needs a little more finesse than his usual bull-in-a-china-shop approach. “You mentioned once that they’re the reason you know what to do when someone’s having a panic attack, and I dunno. I sensed that there was a story there.”

Cas leans forward to dump his applications on the coffee table. He turns to Dean, bringing his leg up onto the couch between them. 

Eyelashes lowered, he answers, “It’s a long story, but suffice it to say they weren’t good people.”

It’s just vague and so un-Cas-like that it has alarm bells ringing in Dean’s brain, discordant and deafening.

Dean licks his lips, barging past every instinct that’s telling him to leave this the hell alone. Whatever it is, it’s not gonna be good, but he needs to be there for his boyfriend, has to show him that he can handle this shit. He puts the words out there carefully. “What happened to them, Cas?”

Cas’ eyes are ice-cold and distant when his gaze lifts to Dean, “I told you. They died.”

Shaky inside and out, Dean’s kinda scared to ask, but he needs to know, “How did they die?”

Cas doesn’t answer. 

“Cas?” Dean catches Cas’ wrist, pleads with his eyes, hoping to convey that it’s okay. Whatever happened, Dean’s here.

Cas disengages his wrist, and shoves jerkily to his feet. He starts pacing behind the coffee table, a fist in his hair, threatening to pull strands of it out at the root. “They were murdered.”

Mindfucked, Dean gapes, “Is whoever did it in jail?”

Cas shoots him a look that Dean interprets as his ‘don’t ask stupid questions’ one. 

_Shit._

Dean knows he’s wearing his heartache all over his face. 

_Orphaned at fourteen years old._

Dean wants to ask, wants to know everything, but it’s Cas’ painful story to tell when he’s ready.

_Is this what Meg was talking about? The whole ‘skeletons in the closet’ thing?_

There’s a fine tremor running through Cas’ bones and right now, it’s do or die. Dean has to decide whether he’s gonna embrace all of Cas or leave him right here to flounder. It’s no choice at all. 

He’s up and off the couch, enveloping Cas in a hug, practically smothering him so that he can’t escape. Even if he wanted to.

There’s a lot Cas isn’t telling him, is keeping locked up tight in his chest, but they’ve got time; Dean’ll work on it. 

Dean can help him. After all, it’s just them and nobody else, right? Cas will talk to him when he’s ready. 

***

Cas gets into Berkeley’s law school. This time, there’s no wild party — it’s just the two of them; Dean gasping into the pillows, caught on Cas’ dick as his boyfriend victory-fucks him through the mattress, and Dean never wants to stop feeling this way: this safe, this loved. 

His and Cas’ saw-toothed edges slot together effortlessly; all their broken pieces fitting together, instead of jangling loose, threatening to rip their insides to ribbons. 

Dean buys him a Metallica shirt. _...And Justice For All._ It’s more than just the obvious lawyer joke; it’s an in-joke too, because he and Cas have made their own justice. 

Calls from Charlie, Benny, and Garth continue to go unanswered. 

Dean goes to class, comes home to Cas, curls up next to him, does his homework so he doesn’t fail — not now he’s so close — and then goes with Cas to whatever social thing he needs to attend in preparation for Cas starting law school next year. He smiles in the right places, does all the spiel, pushes everything down into that box, and fakes it until he makes it. 

Unfortunately though, wherever Cas and Dean go, there goes Meg. 

They earned a brief reprieve over the summer when she went home to hell — or wherever it is a she-devil like her resides — but now that she’s back on campus with everyone else, she seems determined to make up for her stalkery-ness, like she’s clawing back overtime.

In the wake of losing his own best friend, Dean’s tempted to refresh his opinion on Meg, to force himself to get along with her for Cas’ sake, but she’s just such a fucking bitch that it’s nigh-impossible for him to find common ground with her. She’s like a wrecking ball, crashing in whenever Dean and Cas are having a moment, like a douse of cold water, or a pastor’s parent making sure that their kid is being a good little Christian. 

Dean’s pretty sure that it’s far too late for Cas’ immortal soul anyway. Gay sex aside, if Dean remembers his Bible correctly, murder is also a pretty big no-no. Committing murder with your boyfriend? Yeah, that’s a first-class ticket downstairs. 

Anyway, Dean suspects it’s a little less about saving souls and more about owning them. Which, well, Dean wins in that department too — the devil can’t have Cas, ‘cause he belongs to Dean. 

(He’s tempted to get some kind of legally binding contract drawn up, just in case.)

As the semester wears on and it gets closer to the anniversary of their murder marriage, Dean starts to take some kind of sick pride in it. Not the murder itself — though it’s worth noting that for a pair of novices, they’ve done pretty well at remaining uncaught, despite campus appeals — but what it stands for. it’s the one thing Dean has for sure over Meg: she’s never plotted to kill with Cas. Never stood there over the grave of someone who wronged her, with Cas at the other side, staring her down with fuck-me eyes and an inherent promise that nothing would ever harm her. 

Nah. That’s Dean’s and Dean’s _alone_. 

He can afford to be magnanimous. 

So, whenever she barges in, shoving her small body right between them like it’s not a big enough metaphor already, Dean lets it slide, even if it has him pushing Cas harder, acting out more whenever it’s just him and Cas in the early hours. 

And if his guilt about Jo mingles with his need for Cas’ attention and punishment sometimes, then that’s nobody’s business but his own. 

***

Graduation isn’t quite the ordeal that Dean feared it might be. 

Sammy’s there, John’s there, and Cas is there. 

Nobody from Cas’ family shows, and it makes Dean’s chest feel like tenderized raw meat. Not even an aunt? A cousin three times removed? 

Of course, Meg is there though. And reluctantly, Dean is kinda glad Cas has at least one other person on his side.

Still, the whole thing drags, not helped by Cas glaring daggers at John for a large amount of the ceremony, unable to take Dean’s hand on what should be a pretty proud day in their lives. It’s dumb, but Dean hates his dad a lot in the moment, hates him for intruding on Cas and Dean’s little bubble, for making Dean remember that there is a world outside of them, and it’s not always going to be welcoming them with open arms. 

Benny, Charlie, and Garth turn up after the ceremony, having already attended theirs earlier in the week.

Their smiles are brittle. Charlie asks him if he and Cas are coming to the after-party like she already knows the answer.

Dean confirms what she thought, with no inkling of remorse. Yes, he and Cas are having their own after-party tonight. After an entire day of having to pretend that they’re just roommates, Dean wants nothing more than to be skin-on-skin with the love of his life.

“Maybe we should meet up over the summer?” Garth suggests with hopeful eyes. “One of us could pick something to do — something fun — for a couple of days.”

Dean can’t be the one to snuff out that light, so he answers with a small but genuine smile of his own. “Sure, Garth. Sounds good. Tell you what, why don’t you take first pick?”

It’s a little victory for them, it seems, and Dean’s happy to concede. 

***

Dean’s first couple months of gainful employment go about as well as expected. He doesn’t love his job, but it’s okay for now. It pays enough for Dean to actually start covering the bills fifty-fifty, rather than Cas’ family’s money doing all the heavy lifting. 

Cas starts law school, and the specter of Meg looms large over them when she sticks around campus too.

Sometimes, when Dean’s thinking about Cas and his family, he wonders whether it’s worth talking to Meg or not. She’s known him longer — she might know about Cas’ parents, and what the hell happened there. 

Whether Dean likes it or not (and he definitely, absolutely does _not_ ), Cas clearly trusts her.

 _Ugh._

***

Dean is waiting for Cas at some student law journal launch thing that Cas is a part of (which Dean is super proud of him for) when he finally decides to swallow his pride and just go for it. 

Meg is here — ostensibly for some other poor law student in Cas’ class that she’s got her claws into — but Dean knows the real reason why she’s showed up, even if Cas doesn’t wanna recognize it. 

Dean navigates his way through the neat groups of bodies on his way over to the tall table, where she’s perched on one of the high-backed stools with a wine glass, wearing a pretty dress that, Dean has to reluctantly admit, looks good. 

He stops on the opposite side, but doesn’t take a seat. “Hey, uh, Meg?”

She pauses her texting, slants him a look. “No creative insult for me today? I’m disappointed.” Putting her cell on the table, she glances around at their wood-paneled, marble surroundings, probably deciding (like Dean) that this is not the best place for a bitch-off. “What do you want, handsome?”

Dean wipes his clammy hands on his dress pants, hating everything about the way she looks so natural in this environment, compared to his clumsy, underdressed ass. “What do you know about Cas’ family?”

Her smug smile flickers a little, dimming for an instant, but then it’s back in full force. “Well, isn’t that something? Our darling Castiel hasn’t told you, has he?”

She’s enjoying this far too much.

  
Dean scratches at the back of his neck, awkward. “We kinda talked about it a while back, but it seems like a sensitive subject, so I don’t wanna push. There was nobody there for him at graduation and I just—” he cuts himself off, sighs.

Meg fills in the gap. “You’re just digging for information on him because you have no respect for his boundaries?”

Dean balks, instantly defensive. “No!” Though, really yes. And he feels pretty guilty for going behind Cas’ back like this. “Never mind, forget I said anything.”

She leans across the table between the two of them, more serious than Dean’s ever seen her. “What’s in it for me if I tell you, Dean-o? ‘Cause whatever you may think of me — and trust me, I don’t want to know about all the little blood-soaked fantasies that run through your pretty-boy head on the daily — Castiel is my friend. If he doesn’t trust you enough to tell you himself, then why should I?”

Dean grits his teeth. _Bitch._

He wants to say as much to her face, usually wouldn’t hesitate. But firstly, her response indicates that there really is more to the story, as Dean suspected, and he needs this information from her, and secondly, she’s _right_. 

Cas obviously doesn’t trust him for whatever reason. 

The realization hurts; a sharp pain behind his ribs, like he’s been stabbed and the stabber is just rooting around in his chest, cutting him to ribbons for funsies. 

He thought he and Cas were in this shit together. And now it turns out that Cas is one foot in and one out, as though he’s prepared to make a quick exit.

_Well, shit._

Meg leans back in her seat, all alpha bitch, as she considers him with snake eyes, framed by perfectly applied winged eyeliner. Jo tried that shit once, and she ended up looking like a raccoon. It’s a good memory at a bad time, and Dean digs the fingers of his hidden right hand into his thigh through his JCPenney pants, willing himself to hold off on his freakout for when he gets home, when he can deal with this alone.

He doesn’t wanna give Meg any more ammunition, even though he’s already pulled the pin on this particular grenade. 

“Just Google him,” she suggests after a delicate sip of wine. “It’ll bring up everything you need to know.”

It won’t, and she knows it won’t. 

Dean keeps quiet. Maybe she’ll inadvertently reveal something at least a little more telling than an impersonal internet search engine. Especially if she thinks she’s on to a winner here.

Lo and behold, with nobody to banter against, she gives in after a protracted pause. “Do you know how Clarence and I know each other?”

Dean shakes his head. 

She taps her nails against her wine glass absentmindedly, probably deciding on how to do the most damage. “We met at a group psychotherapy session. There were three of us. Us two and a kid called Balthazar.”

Dean’s not sure he wants to hear this, but he’s gotta. He downs half of his whisky on the rocks in one go, melting shards of ice and all.

“I think we were fourteen, fifteen maybe. Well, you talk about a lot of personal things during therapy. We got close, learned and understood each other’s issues. We started to hang out outside of the therapy sessions. And then one day I discovered my two best boyfriends fumbling around in the dark with each other.” She takes another sip of wine, leaving a faint lipstick mark on the rim. “It was cute, puppy love. At first. You know how intense Clarence is, how difficult he is to say no to. Well, Balthazar got swept up in it all. Would’ve done anything for our angelface, because he just has that effect on people.” She looks at Dean meaningfully. “So, perhaps now you understand me when I say that I’ve seen all this before. Your relationship with him is nothing special if he hasn’t told you his origin story.” She licks her lips, eyes dropping down Dean’s body, and he’s never felt more naked. Or objectified. “You must be a really good lay for him to have kept you around for all this time. If he was playing for keeps though, he would’ve told you long before now.”

Dean doesn’t acknowledge the dig, even as it makes him feel exposed and anxious. _What if she’s right? What if Cas is just fucking around? Maybe he’s only stuck around this long because of the murder_ _—_ _maybe he’s worried you’ll go to the cops._ Instead, he tries to keep his head in the game. ‘Cause that’s precisely what all this is to her. There’s no way she’s telling him this shit outta the goodness of her heart. “Wuh—” he clears his throat, tries again, “—What happened to Balthazar?”

“Google it,” she says again, sharp and vindictively pleased. “You’ll see.”

***

Cas turns up a half-hour later, full of rushed apologies. Dean’s feeling kinda tipsy on posh-people booze and nothing but a couple of canapes in his stomach. He’s inordinately pleased that Cas has finally arrived to save him from this pomp and circumstance, but Cas barely presses a cold-lipped kiss to Dean’s cheek, before he’s moving on to shaking the hands of the men who were sniggering behind their palms at Dean. 

Meg, of course, appears like she’s been summoned, and fits herself right up against Cas’ side like it’s the most natural thing in the world. 

Dean takes it as his cue to slip away to the bathroom. 

He splashes some water on his face, stares down his reflection as the droplets fall into the sink, the only sound in an otherwise eerily silent space.

This whole night has been shitty, and Dean wants nothing more than to go home and curl in on himself, but he can’t. Cas was there for him; he’s gotta be there for Cas. Simple as.

With a sigh that’s dredged up from the very core of his being, Dean ventures back out to the event. 

As he exits the bathroom, Dean spies Cas across the room — eyes drawn unfailingly to him — and he looks so damn handsome, fitting so seamlessly into their surroundings, that Dean experiences a sharp stab of pride. He needs to stop being in his own head so damn much about this. 

Dean’s about to go over there, scoop up his boyfriend’s arm and be the best, proudest partner he can be, be the man Cas deserves, when somebody moves away, and Dean sees Meg still standing next to Cas. Her beautiful forest-green ball gown is elegant and expensive, matched perfectly with her tennis-at-the-country-club jewelry, and it has something dark and ugly roiling Dean’s stomach. They look perfect together. Even the way she’s holding a champagne flute in her bird-bone hand speaks to how well she fits in. Tilting her head back on a gracious laugh at something the old guy with the salt-and-pepper hair is saying to the two of them. 

They’re the perfect couple. 

Standing there in a grandiose room with oil stains on his hands that refuse to budge even with an entire bucket of sugar soap, Dean knows he’s a lot less than Cas deserves. 

Feeling maudlin and sorry for himself, he spies an empty table and cuts a path through people to get to it. There’s the long, leather strap of a purse wrapped around the metal legs of the stool, and Dean disentangles it before he realizes whose it is. 

_Meg. Must’ve been in such a hurry to glue herself to Cas that she forgot about it._

The purse is unzipped. Her phone, lipstick, some kind of mint wrapper, and keys are all wedged tightly into the tiny space. 

_It would be so easy._

Dean glances up. Through the crowd, he can’t see Cas or Meg. 

Now. Dean’s not normally a snooper. There was that one time when he thought Sammy was on drugs (turns out, kid was doing a nerdy project on yogurt and trying to cultivate a new lifeform) and so Dean went through his room, but that’s it.

He sets his glass down on the table with trembling fingers.

Checking the coast is clear and that absolutely nobody is paying attention to him (they’re not, why would they be), Dean pulls Meg’s cell outta the purse. It’s one of those weird slider phones, the ones with a qwerty keyboard that pops out sideways. 

He finds her messages easily, and surprise fucking surprise, the latest exchange is between her and Cas.

_Meg: your boytoy has been asking me questions about your family_

_Castiel: Don’t worry, I’ve got it handled ;)_

_Meg: ;)_

  
  


Dean feels sick. And it has nothing to do with the weird fish egg thing on a cracker that he ate earlier in an attempt to be cultured. He stuffs the phone back into the purse as he glances around, but nobody is coming over to yell at him for looking through stuff that he shouldn’t be looking through. 

_Shit._

What the fuck is Cas hiding?

***

Dean spends the next couple of days studiously _not_ thinking about Cas and Meg and Balthazar. 

_What kind of name is that anyways?_

The whole thing needles at him: Meg knowing even one thing about Cas that Dean doesn’t. He was in therapy — understandable, but it’s something Cas has never even hinted at — and then the Balthazar thing?

_What the actual fuck._

Like, sure, Dean gets that Cas has exes. But it’s the weird way Meg seems to think that history is repeating itself or some shit. 

It shouldn’t bother him, but it _does_.

He’s loath to actually do anything that Meg suggests though, so he just stews in his own juices until one night in bed, Cas is forced into demanding to know what Dean’s problem is. 

Feeling trapped and irrationally betrayed, Dean blurts, “Are you friends with any of your exes?”

Cas arches an eyebrow. “No,” he answers blandly. “Why?”

Dean shrugs. “I don’t know.”

“Dean,” Cas says, voice quiet with fond patience. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know,” he says again. “Just stressed at work, I guess.”

It’s a pretty transparent lie, and he’s not surprised when Cas calls him out on it. “Don’t lie to me.”

_Oh, that’s rich._

Something passes behind the veil of Cas’ expression. “What was that? In response to what I just said, you made a face.”

“Nothing,” Dean lies. “I’m just…”

“Tired?” Cas supplies, unimpressed and disbelieving. “Alright.” And with that, he turns over onto his side — away from Dean — and switches out the nightstand lamp, plunging them into abrupt darkness. 

_That went well._

***

What isn’t Cas telling him? And more to the point, _why_?

It’s something that goes round and round in Dean's head, every minute of every hour of every day. He becomes completely stuck on it. He and Cas have killed together, they sleep together, they live together, and yet Cas doesn’t trust him?

It’s supposed to be the two of them, so why is Dean starting to feel like he’s the interloper in this little three-way they have going on? 

Cas is the only thing in the world Dean loves like this, but Cas has two options to choose from, and Dean hates it. 

Dean racks his brains trying to spool through everything that’s happened over the past few years. Has he ever given Cas a reason to mistrust him? Not one that he can find.

He just doesn’t understand where he’s gone wrong. Cas isn’t exactly forthcoming a lot of the time — the way they got together is proof of that — but Dean naively assumed that he meant something to Cas beyond a warm body in his bed and a tight ass around his cock. 

_Obviously not._

In their freshman year, when Dean and Jo were bored and avoiding doing work, she would read out the most ridiculous articles from her weirdo roommate’s chick magazines. Articles like: “I Found Out My Lover Was My Brother” and “I Hired a Hitman to Kill ME”. One that would come up pretty frequently in the problems page was: “I think my boyfriend is having a secret affair with his friend. But he told me he loved me. What do I do?” And every time, Dean would be astonished that these women couldn’t see the dick for what he was (a dick). 

Now that he’s starting to think he might be in a similar situation, he gets it. It’s hard to believe that someone you love and trust could do that to you, but here he is. 

So, he starts digging. 

He finishes work earlier than Cas finishes law school on Tuesdays and Thursdays, so, alumni card in hand, he pays a visit to the library to log on to one of the computers and search the digital newspaper archives. 

It doesn’t take long for results to pop up once Dean types in Cas’ name. 

He clicks on the first link. It’s a headline from the _Bucks County Courier Times_.

  
  


_Millionaire Couple Found Massacred at Their Country Estate_

Underneath the headline, there’s a color photo. It’s not one of those candid, happy, caught-in-the-moment shots, nor is it a casually posed scene. It’s a dour family photograph, almost Victorian in its strict, dressed-up-not-a-hair-out-of-place nature. There’s an older man and a woman standing behind a young boy, who may now be eleven or so years older, but there’s no mistaking those baby blues.

It’s Cas. 

Numbly, Dean scrolls to continue reading.

_Police yesterday found the bodies of Naomi, 37, and Zachariah Novak, 41, at their country estate in Perkasie, PA. They were shot to death during what Bucks County law enforcement suspect was a robbery gone wrong. Their son, Castiel, 14, was unharmed in the incident._

_Bucks County law enforcement are trying to determine the events that led to the slaying of these two popular figures in the…_

Dean skips ahead. 

_...their bodies were taken to the county morgue for an autopsy. The son is currently in the care of friends of the family..._

  
  


Dean scrolls down and clicks on the Related Stories link at the bottom of the page. He doesn’t read any of them, just skims the headlines. The dates are several months apart each time.

_Only Son and Heir to Novak Fortune Missing_

_Son Wanted for Questioning in Novak Slayings_

_Novak Heir Arrested After Anonymous Tip_

_Novak Son Denies Involvement in the Deaths of His Parents_

_Novak Released Without Charge in Family Slayings_

  
  


Dean slumps in his seat, dragging a shaky hand over his mouth.

_Jesus fucking Christ, Cas._

What the hell. So Cas was accused, but let go? The dates add up to almost three years of investigation, which means Cas was seventeen by the time he was finally allowed to live life without worrying about getting picked up by the cops for the deaths of his parents.

He was nineteen when he met Dean.

Two years. Two short years between what had to have been a pretty traumatic ordeal and him and Dean meeting. No wonder he doesn’t wanna fucking talk about it.

_So where does Balthazar fit in?_

Dean scoots forward again, dragging the wheelie chair along with him. He clicks out of the newspaper page and goes back to the archive’s main page. He stares at the blinking cursor, wondering what parameters to use. He tries ‘Balthazar’ and ‘death’, because there's a reason they're called 'skeletons in the closet' and not 'perfectly happy and healthy people in the closet'.

The very first result reads:

_Body of Missing Teen Found In Woods_

Dean lets the mouse hover over the link for a moment. Does he really wanna open this can of worms?

_You’ve come this far. Might as well go the whole way._

He clicks.

_A body found earlier this week in the woods off Route 202 north of Doylestown has been identified as missing teen Balthazar Roche._

_Roche, 16, had been reported missing last weekend, and had last been seen near the 7-Eleven on East Street at about 2:40 a.m. on Friday._

_An investigation had been launched and law enforcement were working to trace two witnesses in a bid to try and locate Roche._

Dean skips ahead to the end. 

_Law enforcement are investigating the possibility of foul play..._

  
  


There’s nothing else. No other reports to suggest anything else came of the police investigation, but… 

_Death happens a lot around Cas._

Could be coincidence, or it could be something a lot more.

_Well. There’s only one way to find out._

  
  


***

Dean lets it simmer for a few days, lets himself think deeply about how to approach this. 

He’s gotta ask Cas, that much is certain. It’s just. How? How do you approach someone you’ve known for four years and say, _‘so hey, I did some snooping on you, your family, and your ex. Turns out people die around you, huh? You wanna explain or…?’_

Thing is, Dean knows Cas.

_Or you thought you did._

No, Dean knows Cas. Most of him; it’s just this part of his life before Dean. But he _wants_ to know about that too, wants the two of them to share the worst parts of each other so Dean can know for sure that this is true fucking love.

It is. But he needs to know _for sure_. 

***

Dean winds the silk tie around his fingers, twisting it tighter and tighter. He’s supposed to be getting himself out of his work clothes and into respectable appellate-competition-spectator attire, but he’s been standing in front of their bedroom’s full-length mirror in his boxer-briefs, socks, and unbuttoned shirt for what feels like days now. 

He’s meeting Cas at the competition venue. It’s the regional finals and Cas has been killing it so far; building a seamless case, smoothly and effectively cutting through the opposition’s arguments like a Great White through water.

Dean’s proud of him, so fucking proud. He fought like hell to get here and he deserves every scrap of success, every accolade that comes his way. 

But does he deserve Dean, or does he deserve better? 

It’s something Dean’s been thinking a lot about lately. Because ever since the journal launch, Dean’s been slowly realizing that maybe, just maybe, this entire relationship has been one-sided. 

Dean attached himself to Cas when he was at a low point, when he was struggling with the stalker. And Cas, maybe after years of feeling helpless when his parents and friend were killed, decided to step in and help Dean. 

Nothing that’s happened between them has ever made Dean feel like Cas doesn’t love him, but then, like Meg said, Cas doesn’t trust him. And surely that’s a big part of love?

_Fuck._

He doesn’t know what to do. His head is so full of these conflicting ideas, and he just needs it to stop. 

But he’s scared. Petrified of asking Cas, because what if he turns around and says, _‘yeah, I don’t trust you, I don’t love you, and I was just waiting to finish my law degree so that Meg and I could run off together,’_ or something.

It doesn’t make sense, but none of it does.

Dean needs to talk to Cas. He knows he does, but that brings him back full circle.

There have been a couple of times when he almost did, almost plucked up the courage to ask, but Cas is working his ass off to make something of himself, so he’s always tired, always coming home exhausted, with weak, forced smiles for Dean as he quietly plots for a future that Dean’s most likely not in. 

Dean keeps going round and round about it in his own head. 

He pulls his smart pair of pants on, zips and buttons them, then pauses.

Maybe Cas did love him, but then realized that he’s gonna be a hotshot lawyer; a bastion of good. He doesn’t need Dean the Millstone around his neck, dragging him down for eternity. 

Looking at Dean every day has to be a reminder of what he did, right? There’s no way that Cas doesn’t see past the decision he made to save Dean. How’s he supposed to square that with his new identity and career? 

How’s he not supposed to think about all the shit that happened with his family and boyfriend? 

But then, killing Ketch was Cas’ idea and he’s never shown remorse or regret; in fact, they’ve got their own jokes about it and—

There’s a very small voice at the back of Dean’s head asking, ‘What if Cas was the one who killed his family and his ex?’ But he shuts that right down, because honestly, it scares him how much the thought of Cas having done that _doesn’t_ scare him. 

Shit. 

He needs to not be here. He needs to think.

Maybe if he gets away for a while. Maybe visit Sammy at Stanford or something. Just figure shit out without Cas around, that’s all. 

_Yeah. Yeah._

***

Dean’s almost finished packing up his clothes when he hears a key in the front door. His heart rate picks up. He’d hoped to avoid this fight, just slip out of Cas’ life with a whimper rather than a bang, but that’s never really been their style anyway. 

So Dean braces himself for the argument.

“Dean?” Cas sounds worried, and Dean’s heart clenches. By Cas’ footsteps, Dean can tell that he’s checking rooms as he goes. 

“Up here,” Dean calls, voice cracking. “In the bedroom.”

He hears Cas on the stairs, and then Cas is shoving the door wide, chest rising and falling as he stands in the doorway, trophy in one hand, tie undone and hair a riotous mess, like somebody’s been running their hands through it. 

Dean’s surprised there isn’t lipstick on his collar. 

“Dean?” Cas says again, coming into the room, blue eyes surveying the pulled-out drawers and empty closet hangers. 

“You won?” Dean asks, voice trembling just a little.

“Yeah,” Cas answers, distracted. “What’s going on?”

Dean’s been practicing his speech. That doesn’t make it any easier to get the words out. 

“Cas, I love you. So much that it scares me sometimes. But lately, I’ve been realizing that I might be in this alone. I don’t know. I’ve been clinging to you so damn tight and maybe, just maybe, that’s not what you want.” The laugh he lets out is self-deprecatory and bitter. “I honestly don’t know, and that’s part of the problem, Cas. I trust you with everything, but _you_ don’t trust _me_ and it fucking hurts, man. If it was truly just you and me, then why Meg? Why are you keeping things from me?” He’s going off-script, so he reins it back in quickly. “I just need some time to think, that’s all.”

Entire civilizations have risen and fallen in the time it takes Cas to respond. “You’re leaving me?”

Dean nods, not trusting his voice. He goes to turn back to his suitcase, but Cas is quick, and he’s across the room, grabbing Dean’s arm so hard that he pinches the skin. “Why?” he asks, artless and agonized. “Why are you leaving me? I don’t understand.”

Dean doesn’t pull his arm out of Cas’ grip, content for this to be the last time Cas marks him up. “You lied to me, Cas. You’re keeping shit from me.”

Cas growls at that, actually _growls_. “What the hell are you talking about? Where’s all this coming from?”

Chest fluttering under his flat breathing, Dean starts, “Meg, she—”

Cas’ harsh laugh cuts him off, “That’s it? _This_ old argument again? She’s just a friend, Dean, Jesus, what’s it going to take to make you understand that? It’s been four years, and you still can’t get it through your head that I’m with you and not her?”

Angered, he tosses his trophy onto the bed. Due to the way Dean’s clothes are piled up, instead of landing squarely, it lands at an angle, and falls to the floor. The glass snaps away from the base with a sickening crunch.

Dean snaps with it, a hot rush of nerves in his blood. “Yeah? Have you ever considered telling her that? ‘Cause she told me—” This time, Dean cuts himself off. 

Cas’ voice is eerily calm when he says, “She told you what?”

_Fuck it._

“She told me about Balthazar, she told me that you don’t fucking trust me enough, that it’s obvious we’ll never last, ‘cause you won’t tell me jack shit about your family and your past! That if we were in it for the long haul, you would’ve told me by now!”

Cas’ body language shifts into something scary, predatory, as he comes around the edge of the bed. Dean fights to stand his ground, determination layered on top of the mounting agitation and unease.

“You don’t think I trust you,” Cas says evenly, right in Dean’s space. “Has it ever occurred to you that you’re the one who doesn’t trust me? You haven’t since day one, always questioning me about my relationship with Meg—”

Nu-uh. Cas ain’t turning this shit around on Dean.

“Yeah, and it looks like I was right to ask questions, ‘cause you trust _her_ , don’t you? With _everything_. You know my deepest, darkest secrets, and yet here I am in the fucking dark with Meg laughing in my face, ‘cause I’m just the dumb fuck you’re screwing until you get over… what was it she said? Your ‘infatuation’?” With that, the levee breaks and all his insecurities come pouring out, and Dean’s scant inches away from the breakdown that’s been four years in the making. “If I’m just holding you back and dragging you down, then what the fuck am I doing here, huh? I’m fucking miserable, I hate my job, I hate all these pretentious fucking things I have to attend! I don’t fit in, and I’m your past. All that—” he waves a careless hand at the broken trophy, “—is your future. I don’t wanna be responsible for you not living your best life or whatever.”

“You’re not,” Cas says, and there’s anger and desperation seeping in around the hard edges of his tone. “You’re everything. You’ve never held me back. It’s _for_ you, because of you that I’m here. None of this means anything without you.”

Dean wants to believe it, he really does. But actions speak louder than words.

“Cas...I can’t, okay? I just can’t.” Dean’s thin voice catches at the end. 

“...what are you saying?”

“I’m saying that I need a break.” _From this, from us._ “This is for both of us.”

This is what’s right. This is Dean doing the right thing for them. It _has_ to be the right thing.

“You’re not leaving me,” Cas says, matter-of-fact, all foregone conclusion, like he knows something Dean doesn’t, which would make Dean laugh if he didn’t think he’d choke on the heart in his throat. 

“Cas, I just need…” _some time, you to tell me the truth, Meg to fuck off out of the picture for good._

“Dean,” Cas growls, and Dean finds himself with his back to their bedroom wall, their bodies pressed together so close that Dean can feel Cas’ rapid heartbeat against his own, an involuntary call and response.

Lips to the shell of Dean’s ear, Cas whispers lowly, “What’s this really about?” Dean can’t answer, unable to formulate a response before Cas continues, the words curling wrathful and vindictive between them. “Is this about Meg and me, or is it about you? About your guilt and insecurities?”

Dean’s heart stutters and restarts. He opens his mouth around nothing. “I-” He’s got nothing.

_‘Meg and me’?_

Dean’s never been Cas’ first choice, has he? It’s always been Cas and Meg and their fucking secrets that go deeper than Cas and Dean’s ever will. 

Through the stiffness of his throat, Dean manages to squeeze out, “It’s definitely about you and Meg.”

Cas studies Dean with those too-earnest blue eyes, the weight of which Dean has to turn away from, unnerved and flayed open by the soul-deep scrutiny. “I believe in you and me, Dean. I believe in us. Why is it so much to ask that you feel the same?”

_I do. I did._

Cas’ fingers dig into his jaw, forcing Dean to face him. “Tell me you don’t want this,” he demands, dangerous and fierce. 

Dean blinks at Cas, long-lashed and lazy. If he’s breaking both their hearts, then he wants to smash it _all_ to tiny shards that’ll live under his skin forever, needs this to be irrevocable so that he can’t piece it back together at a later date. “I don’t want this,” he says and it’s the biggest lie he’s ever told. Bigger than the one he told his hypermasculine marine dad at age seventeen when he said he was strictly into girls.

Contrary to his words, he angles his hips like a sure bet, goading and self-destructive.

They stare each other down like they’re going to fight, and Dean can feel the violence in Cas, can feel it in the tight way he holds himself, the way his body crushes against Dean’s, nothing between them but all the words they can’t say. 

Not verbally at least.

Cas’ hands drop to Dean’s pants, nimble fingers working the button open and zipper down. Dean doesn’t stop him, but he does say, “Let me leave, Cas,” without the necessary conviction.

“Tell me you don’t want me,” Cas demands, palming Dean through the cotton of his boxers. Dean’s achingly hard, and he thrusts up into Cas’ light touch, not acknowledging Cas’ order, because that’s one lie too far. 

“I know this is difficult for you,” Cas breathes into Dean’s ear, hot and heavy and vise-tight around Dean’s heart, cinching tighter. “So I’m going to make it easy, okay?”

Dean’s hollow laugh cracks in the middle. Nothing about them has been easy. This ain’t gonna be any different. “Fuck you, Cas.”

“Dean,” Cas says, quiet but firm. The way he looks at Dean feels like a blade across his wrist.

“Do it,” Dean tells him through the grit of his teeth, out for blood. “Fuck me, kill me, whatever. Just fucking do it.”

It’s a deliberately cruel dig, and Cas’ eyes go liquid, hurt and soul-exposing wide for a split second before they shutter again. “Fine.”

Dean waits, willing whatever is gonna happen to be quick. Cas’ breathing is fast and ragged, anger and spite and desperation fueling him the same way it’s fueling Dean. Cas roughly drags Dean’s pants and boxers down around his thighs, gets a warm, clever hand around Dean’s dick, and Dean grunts, breath stuttering. 

Cas jacks him once, twice, thumb smearing through the precome that gathers at the tip, before letting go and ordering Dean to turn around.

Dean shuffles to face the wall, ending up with his left cheek pressed against the cool surface, feet knocked apart as far as the limitations of his pants around his knees will allow. He squeezes his eyes shut. Behind him, the sound of a belt buckle and a zipper coming apart, the rustle of clothes being discarded. Dean doesn’t move, does his best not to think, just waits, holds his breath, ignores the tell-tale-heart throb of his dick. Tries hard not to hate himself for it.

The not-thinking thing is a lost cause; he’s gotta know. “Did you kill them?”

Cas responds with a kiss just beneath Dean’s ear. He drags Dean’s still-open shirt down his arms and leaves it there, tangled around Dean’s wrists, pinning his hands behind his back. Automatically, Dean’s fingers search for Cas’ skin, coming into contact with the firmness of his stomach, the back of his knuckles brushing against the silky head of Cas’ erection. 

Cas’ sharp intake of breath is all Dean needs, and he curves his hand so that Cas can thrust into the tunnel of his palm. “Did you kill them?” Dean repeats, pulse racing.

It’s playing dirty, but nothing about this is clean. 

Cas says, “You think I did,” and it’s not a question. He moves in closer, Dean’s hands caught between the crush of their bodies. Cas’ cock is branding-iron hot against the naked flesh of Dean’s ass. Dean whines as Cas adjusts himself to get a hand between their bodies, cupping Dean’s ass cheek, palm warm and smooth.

“Cas,” Dean says, both upset and darkly thrilled. “Just…” _do it, do something more than this tender shit._ “Yeah,” he spits, vicious and hurt and angry, even though he doesn’t know what to think. “Yeah, I think you did it.”

His chest aches with the barb, almost as much as his dick aches with the way Cas pushes a spit-coated finger in between his cheeks, pressing up behind Dean’s balls. Dean lets his forehead drop to the wall, focuses on not thinking about how good Cas is with his hands and his fists, how he must’ve fought like hell when he was younger, how he’s survived everything and thrived. 

Dean loves him with his whole heart. Cas loves Dean with maybe a third of his. Dean thought they were in this together, but it was just words whispered in the dark, and not meant in the light. 

What they are to each other is less Bonnie and Clyde, and more Bonnie, Clyde, and the guy he was fucking on the side for shits and giggles. 

One hand grips Dean’s hip, holding him steady as Cas shoves his finger inside Dean, not giving him time to adjust, just fucking it in and out, rough and hurried. Like he wants this to be over.

_Fine._

Dean rocks back, shoving his ass out just a little bit more, canting his hips in invitation, encouraging Cas to go faster. Make this quicker — but not painless, definitely not painless — for the both of them. Cas takes the hint, withdrawing his finger, and a heartbeat later, there’s the snap of lube and Cas returns with two slick fingers, thrusting in deep. Dean can’t swallow his moan quick enough, the flare of arousal in the pit of his stomach taking him by surprise as Cas bites down on his neck, sucking a bruise into the skin there.

“Cas,” he pants, as Cas crooks his fingers deep, lighting him up from the inside, and this time they both moan together when it makes Dean clench. 

More lube and another finger, and Dean’s about ready to come out of his skin with the way Cas’ thick knuckles pull at his rim, the way his clever digits find exactly what they’re searching for inside Dean. “Please, Cas, c’mon. Do it.”

Cas pulls his fingers out, leaving Dean empty, and Dean sinks back, his fingertips searching out Cas’ skin, coming into contact with the wiry curls of his pubic hair. 

“Is that what you want?” Cas demands, dick trailing wetly over Dean’s hole, smearing precome and lube. “You want this to be over?”

_God yes and fuck no._

“Cas, I want—”

But it doesn’t matter, because then Cas is pushing inside, sliding bare right up into the center of Dean, filling him up, forcing Dean’s body to shape himself around Cas, custom fit for him.

Fuck, it feels good and it hurts. 

It _should_ hurt though. 

Dean wants Cas to feel it too, so he frames the base of Cas’ dick with his fingers, making sure that on every pull out and push in, Cas has to fuck through the tight squeeze of Dean’s grip to get deeper into his ass. 

Cas makes a gut-punch-hurt sound. Hands clamped on either side of Dean’s hips to hold him steady, he drags himself out of Dean’s body, burying himself back in, until they’re flush against each other, nowhere else to go, and Dean’s biting his lip bloody, copper on his tongue as Cas fucks him for the final time.

He wants to cry, wants to scream, wants to beg Cas to love him the way Dean’s spent the last three and a half years believing that Cas did. That kind of all-consuming, defiant love. Maybe Cas loves him, but not enough. Dean’s not what he needs; just what he wants. 

Blurring the boundaries like only they can, Dean blurts it all out as Cas fucks him hard enough to jar his bones. “I love you, Cas, I love you so much, I’m sorry.” 

Cas’ breathing is erratic on every in and out, “Dean—” 

But Dean doesn’t want to hear Cas’ rejection, so he steamrolls right over it as Cas spears him on his cock again, and his arms are beginning to ache with the position they’re in. It hurts. It hurts like it fucking should and this, this is what _Dean_ deserves. “They say that if you love somebody, you should let them go. Free to be you and me and all that, right?”

He’s silently pleading with Cas to say no. That you never let anybody you love go. That’s not what love is, not true love anyways, but Cas doesn’t disagree, simply huffs, “Right,” as Dean’s head drops back onto his shoulder. 

Staring blindly up at their ceiling, tears blur Dean’s eyes. This is the right thing. 

“Right,” Dean confirms, messy and heartbroken, “Because we’re not meant for each other, you and I, we’re different, and you, you have Meg—”

He’s babbling, not sure what he’s saying, but it’s making Cas fuck him harder and faster, flattening him against the wall, dick trapped and smearing slick over the mint green paint. 

Dean's so full. Full of Cas, full of emotion, full of feelings. It's too much, it's overwhelming. His orgasm is already creeping up his spine, and he can sense that Cas isn’t far behind; thrusts growing uneven, hips churning frantically as Dean’s bound hands work the base of his dick, fingers getting filthy, covered in lube and precome. 

Dean arches his back for more, harder, deeper, as Cas’ fingernails sink into the flesh of Dean’s ass like he’s searching for bone. Tears tracking down his cheeks, Dean’s orgasm is wrenched from the recesses of his soul, and he comes, spurting over the wall, raw edge of pleasure and clench of muscle agonizing as his balls draw up tight, not a hand on his dick.

Cas hunts down his own petite mort, fucking Dean relentlessly, anger and primal need driving him, and it has Dean shivering as Cas grinds into him, fucking him deep enough that he’ll be feeling it for weeks. Cas follows Dean over, still thrusting through his own orgasm, moaning something that sounds like Dean’s name, but it can’t be, because it sounds anguished, like this all means something and it _doesn’t_.

The illusion claws at his sanity nonetheless, and in his head, he’s counting _4-7-8_ , trying to control his breathing, because all he needs is a panic attack right now as they both twitch through the aftershocks of their last orgasm together. Cas kisses Dean’s sweaty temple, breathing labored and moist against Dean’s hairline. 

“Did you kill them?” Dean asks hoarsely, flexing his fingers. 

Cas’ voice is a low rumble against Dean’s skin when he answers, “Would it make a difference if I had?”

_That’s not an answer, Cas._

But then again, maybe it is. “No,” Dean admits after a stilted pause.

_So this is it._

Dean doesn’t know who he is without Cas, but he owes it to the both of them to find out. 

“Get off me, Cas,” Dean shifts underneath him, insistent now that the regret is filtering in through the haze of hormones and want. 

“Dean—”

“I said, get _off_ me,” Dean snarls, needing so badly to be anywhere but here.

There’s a long, dangerous moment before Cas silently slips out of him on the slide of lube and come, and Dean clenches his jaw against the urge to break down and cry. Cas disentangles Dean’s arms from the shirt for him, and then there’s nothing behind Dean but the air carrying the scent of his ex-boyfriend.

Dean numbly pulls his clothes on, finishes shoving whatever will fit in his suitcase. The rest is unimportant. 

He makes it all the way to their front door before he sees Cas again. Cas makes a grab for Dean’s shoulder, tries to get him to turn around and face him, but Dean knows he’ll cave, and he _can’t_. 

“Don’t go,” Cas says simply, and it’s wet around the edges. 

"Cas, let me leave, please. Just let me go."


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanna say that I have absolutely *loved* reading all your theories. There have been some excellent ones that I seriously considered switching to, but I did promise that I wouldn't change the ending. 
> 
> There were a couple of movies I was influenced by for this fic: Scream and a British movie called The Hole. My favourite thing about Scream is that the whole way through it's blatantly obvious who it is, but there are just enough curveballs to make you doubt it. Like, man, that's gotta be too obvious, surely? My favourite thing about The Hole is kinda similar, in that you know there's something off the whole way through, but it's not until towards the end when it's explained that you're like: Ohhh, yeah. Totally fuckin' obsessed. If you've never seen either movie, I recommend them both (early-career Keira Knightly is in the Hole along with Thora Birch, who I was hopelessly in love with for the duration of my teenage years after I saw that movie).
> 
> Gotta give a final chapter shoutout to my beta again. [FriendofCarlotta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FriendofCarlotta/pseuds/FriendofCarlotta) has been so patient with me and my jumble of words. <3
> 
> Good luck :)

**Present Day, Ennis Hill Inn, Cas’ POV**

Castiel stares across at Garth’s lifeless body. It’s strange how human beings are so fragile, except for when they aren’t. He remembers reading years ago about a woman who fell more than thirty thousand feet from a plane and survived. Yet, sometimes all it takes is a copper-plated piece of lead or a well-aimed punch, and that’s it forever. 

Garth’s eyes are glassy, the corneas already turning cloudy. 

Castiel turns away, pillowing his hand underneath his head, staring up at the webbing of cracks in the dining room ceiling.

He’s not one for guilt, but he actually feels a small twinge of something pluck at his heartstrings. He liked Garth and Charlie. They were good people who tried to be good friends, and they deserved better than to die in an abandoned hotel in the middle of nowhere.

Still, it was necessary.

Behind him, the fire crackles, casting everything in a hellfire glow. The shadows on the support beams jump in time with the flames, flitting over the well-worn floorboards, walls and ceiling.

Castiel holds his other hand up above him, twists it this way and that, watching the way the light dances between his fingertips. A gunshot rings out in the foyer, followed by the stumble of feet, then another shot.

Charlie screams. Hand lowered to his chest, Castiel’s eyes follow the line of a crack in the ceiling, looking for constellations and patterns. He finds a unicorn–

A third gunshot.

–a severed thumb– 

A fourth. 

–and what could either be an ash or walnut tree. It’s hard to tell from this angle.

Finally, a fifth.

Meg doesn’t have the best aim. Once, when they were sixteen, Castiel tried to teach her with a stolen gun, but after she nearly shot an innocent squirrel, and simultaneously managed to hit _none_ of the twelve cans and bottles they’d set up, they had to concede that her talents lay elsewhere. 

That was right after Balthazar, when three became two and they were nothing more than chaotic, kinetic energy, rebounding off each other and ricocheting from incident to incident, hoping that they didn’t get caught or get dead. 

The difference between Castiel and Meg is that Castiel always wanted to put that behind him, to move on and actually have a semblance of a normal life. But Meg, Meg lives for the drama, the chaos, the anarchy.

She’s never known any different; her world has always been steeped in destruction and disarray. It’s a way of life for her, and it’s who she is. She’s never had someone else to want to be better for. 

Castiel did. He _does_.

Sometimes, he wonders if Meg wanted someone to love and he just happened to be there. 

“Cas!”

Pulse spiking when he hears Dean’s urgent shout from outside, Castiel levers himself up into a sitting position, grimacing as the move pulls at his wounds. 

“Why the hell are you doing this, you crazy bitch?” Dean’s muffled voice demands, and Castiel almost smiles. Even with a gun pointed at him, Dean is still obstinate and pigheaded.

“Peer pressure,” Meg responds flippantly. “In there. Move.”

In the next second, Dean appears in the dining room doorway, worse for wear and covered in blood – Charlie’s, Castiel hopes. Their eyes catch and hold, and even from here, Castiel can see Dean’s stuttered exhale of relief. Dean glares at Meg out of the corner of his eye, an I-dare-you-to-shoot-me glance, before he’s rushing toward Castiel, collapsing the distance between them, dropping to his knees. 

Meg positions herself just inside the dining room, gun aimed at Dean’s back. She smirks, triumphant and pleased. 

Dean runs his hands over Castiel's shoulders and neck, cupping his face with blood-tacky fingers, telegraphing desperation and concern with every sweep of his thumb over Castiel’s jaw, every plasma-sticky touch of skin on skin. 

“Cas, thank fuck, I was so scared, I thought–”

Hauling him close, burying his face in Dean’s neck, Castiel breathes him in. He smells like the earth, rich and deep, like dirt and trees, overlaid with the thick, familiar tang of iron. There’s a faraway look in his unfocused green eyes when he pulls back; haunted and exhausted. But he’s still beautiful, still _his_ Dean Winchester.

“What’s going on?” Dean asks, clutching Castiel’s shoulder as he casts a glance sideways, catching sight of Garth sprawled out face down on the floorboards, slack expression turned toward them. He lets out an anguished-sounding sob. “Jesus fucking Christ, _Garth_?”

It really is a shame that Garth and Charlie had to die in order for Castiel to save Dean. But the universe doesn’t often deal out second chances, so it was up to Castiel to create his own. 

Dean's attention swings back to Castiel. “Are you okay? Did she hurt you?”

Behind them, Meg scoffs. “If I wanted to hurt him, he’d be dead, mmkay?”

Dean clenches his jaw, his grip on Castiel tightening, but he doesn’t respond to her. 

Castiel lets his raised eyebrow express everything he needs to. Well-versed in each other by now, Dean gets it and touches his forehead to Castiel’s, the two of them so close that they’re sharing breath.

Impatient, Meg orders, “Come on, angelface. Time to get this show on the road. Up you get.”

Over his shoulder, Dean shoots her a nasty look. “His ankle’s fucked up.”

“It’s fine, Dean,” Castiel assures him, pulling Dean’s focus. “I’ll be alright.”

They share another wordless conversation and after a second that ticks into five, Dean relents and dutifully knee-walks to Castiel’s side, sliding an arm around Castiel’s back, hand curling around his rib cage. His lips brush Castiel’s hairline when he says, “You ready? This is gonna hurt.”

Nothing could hurt as much as letting Dean leave.

Though, back then, it wasn’t so much a case of letting him leave as not having the words to make him stay. Castiel may have won competitions and be respected in his profession because he can find the legal loophole in anything, can talk circles around almost anyone, but when it comes to Dean? Dean’s always been his weakness, leaves him tongue-tied and stupid. 

How do you ask someone to stay when you can’t come up with a single solitary reason why they should, beyond ‘I don’t want you to go’?

When Castiel was ten, his mother told him that love isn’t always enough. It never made much sense to him until the day Dean left. There hasn’t been a minute that Castiel hasn’t loved Dean, ever since he laid eyes on him in that dorm with the narrow beds and the window that wouldn’t close all the way. If anything, the feeling has gotten more acute as the years passed, but back then, he knows it wasn’t enough. He was trying so hard to be so many things to so many people. 

It was exhausting, constantly modifying his behavior to mirror whoever he was talking to. He couldn’t work out how other people did it all the time, before he realized that other people _weren’t_ faking it; they really did enjoy Star Wars and knitting and calling themselves ‘fur moms’.

The only thing Castiel’s ever truly enjoyed is Dean. And horror movies. Which is odd, because on the face of it, he probably shouldn’t. His formative years were one big horror movie, and for him, there’s none of the vicarious comfort to be found, none of the rest-and-relax dopamine hit that the rest of the audience gets when the credits roll. 

As with a lot of things in his life though, his appreciation started with Dean. Castiel was an awkward nineteen-year-old in love with his – quite frankly, unnervingly beautiful – roommate and unsure of what to do about it. His first port of call was to find out what Dean loved – horror movies and video games – and to get knowledgeable about the former and competent at the latter. In time, he came to discover his own enjoyment for horror movies.

The misunderstood monster, the vengeful spirit, the manifestation of fear itself – a lot of them were failed or wronged in some way and took it upon themselves to enact vengeance; quite often on behalf of someone they loved. Jason might have lost the terror and mystery he once held with recent installments to the franchise, but that first movie? His mother loved him enough to kill for him, and there’s something about that kind of love that’s always appealed to Castiel, something he’s never experienced for himself (at least not with his own mother).

So, maybe Castiel is projecting his own issues, just a little bit. But he can relate to the movie monster, can see why he might be considered a monster himself from an outside perspective.

Dean’s shoulder jostles into Castiel’s armpit as they struggle through the ordeal of getting him to his feet. Even with Dean’s makeshift splint in place, it’s awkward, and for the tenth time tonight, Castiel wishes he’d chosen to break his arm instead.

With Castiel finally upright, Dean manages a fleeting smile. “There ya go, Cas.”

Across from them, Meg stands in the gray rectangle of the doorway, gun held in her hand like an afterthought. “Aw, isn’t this adorable? You two were always sickeningly cute together, right, Clarence?”

Castiel scowls at her. Her problem with Dean transcends all good sense. As evidenced by this current situation. If she weren’t so easy to manipulate when it comes to Dean, none of them would be here right now.

All Castiel had to do was pretend to give in to her desire to see Dean dead, and she was on board.

“What the fuck is your problem?” Dean asks her through clenched teeth, every muscle in his body tense as he continues to support Castiel’s weight. 

“ _My_ problem?” she repeats incredulously. Castiel has always disliked her penchant for dramatics. 

Then again, it’s not like he can really point fingers. 

After all, this Christie-style denouement _was_ his idea. 

“You killed my friends, you fucking bitch!” Dean spits, clinging protectively to Castiel as though he’s worried Meg is going to target him next.

His instinct to shield – whilst misguided – warms Castiel’s heart. 

“Charlie never liked me,” Meg replies with a callous shrug, and Castiel hates her. Just a little. 

“Gee, I wonder why,” Dean smarts. Self-preservation has never been his strong suit, but he has no idea how trigger-happy Meg may or may not be. She could shoot him dead without a second thought. Probably would, if Castiel hadn’t instructed her that Dean was _his_. Promised her that tonight was the night that he would kill Dean.

“I actually don’t know,” Meg says. “Shame that we can’t ask her anymore, isn’t it?”

Dean glances at Garth again. His heartache is written all over his face. “And Garth? What the hell did he ever do?”

She moves toward them both, her footsteps hollow on the old floorboards. “Well, you see, Clarence and I are on a bit of an ex purge. But then, we’re not the only ones getting rid of old crushes, are we? Where _is_ that handsome Louisiana native? The one you disappeared into the forest with?”

“Oh, you _bitch_.”

Meg’s smile is serrated. “Seems like a stupid thing to say to the person with a gun, but then you never were all that smart, were you?” She slinks forward, shoving the gun under Dean’s jaw, forcing his head back, and Castiel has to fight to keep himself from reacting, has to pretend that he’s okay with her hurting Dean. “You’re just as ruthless as the rest of us, aren’t you, handsome? Poor Benny, all he wanted was to get through to you, wanted you to love him back, but you know how that goes, don’t you?”

Dean’s eyes are ablaze when he spits, “Fuck you.”

She grins, satisfied, and releases him. “Shame, I quite liked him.” Gaze bouncing between the two of them, she adds, “Bet he was thick where it counted.”

“That’s enough,” Castiel tells her, more mediator than accomplice.

Meg’s grin widens. 

“So, you wanted to wipe us all out?” Dean asks, and Castiel knows that he’s playing for time. To do what, Castiel doesn’t know, but it sets his teeth on edge all the same. This is a delicate situation, and Dean needs to be careful. “Are you just bored or do you have a plan?”

“Oh, there’s always a plan,” Meg says. “It’s been a long time coming. Ten years or so, because you were the one who got away. And I’m not just talking about relationships here, mmkay? It’s taken me a long time to persuade Clarence to get rid of you.”

“ _Rid of me?_ ” Dean repeats, confused. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Oh boy, you really are making me do the villain monologue here, aren’t you? Fine. I’ll spell it out for you. You broke his fucking heart when you left him. And I did warn you what would happen if you hurt him, didn’t I? Except your sweetheart wouldn’t let me come after you because he always held out hope that you’d find your way back to each other. Isn’t that just delicious?” She doesn’t wait for an answer. “Well, after Ketch’s body was found, he realized that maybe it was time to throw you under the bus, after all.” 

Not all of that is strictly true. Yes, Castiel was thoroughly heartbroken after Dean left. Yes, he had hoped that on one of these yearly visits, they might be able to sit down and talk. But no, Ketch’s body wasn’t ‘found’ so much as it was dug up by Castiel, and this was never about throwing _Dean_ under the bus for that crime.

It suits him to let Meg think that they’re on the same side though – it’s worked for him up until now – so he keeps quiet.

A muscle in Dean’s jaw jumps, and Castiel silently wills him to just believe in him, in them. To know that Castiel would never do that to him. 

“Nah,” Dean says after a long moment. “Cas wouldn’t. Try again, sweetheart.”

“You poor, dumb bastard,” she says, a tiny frisson of frustration filtering through. “It’s a little too late to believe in him now. Where were you ten years ago? Too busy tearing yourself apart because you thought he killed his parents, weren’t you?” She leans into his space, shares it like a secret. “He did, by the way. Balthazar too.”

If Dean’s surprised by the knowledge that it was Castiel who killed them all, he doesn’t show it. Whether it’s always been there in black and white and red and Dean’s simply come to terms with it, or whether he thinks that Meg is lying, Castiel doesn’t know.

Shifting uncomfortably due to the torn ligament in his ankle – a very real injury, it needs to be stressed, because when Dean and Castiel are explaining all this to the police and paramedics later, it won’t do to have faked it – Castiel leans his weight against the nearest support beam. 

Meg won’t be there explaining it with them, because it’ll be like college all over again: she’ll never leave them alone to be happy. She’ll start up the blackmail shit again, and Castiel is too old to play those kinds of games. 

He just wants Dean. It’s all he’s wanted for the last fourteen years, and the only thing figuratively standing between Castiel and Dean is Meg. There's no other way to do this. She knows too much, so she has to die and take Castiel’s (and Dean's) past with her. The stuff with Ketch, Jo, Balthazar, their parents (because it wasn’t a heart attack that killed asshole extraordinaire John Winchester six years ago). Everything. 

This is their opportunity to start all over again, completely fresh, with a clean slate, with no chance of people turning them in or bodies falling out of closets. 

The gun Meg is wielding just so happens to be both the one that Castiel retrieved from one of the hidden cubby holes in the registration desk while Dean was patching him up, and also the one that he used to kill Ketch, because Castiel may be a lot of things, but stupid isn’t one of them.

All of this really has been a long time coming, and if Dean would’ve given Castiel the time of day before now, things wouldn’t have needed to get this extreme. But maybe it’s better this way. Now they get to tie up all the loose ends and it really can just be the two of them, like Dean always wanted. 

Castiel reaches out a hand for Dean’s bicep under the guise of steadying himself, and doesn’t need to feign his grimace. It hurts, but losing Dean hurts worse, so he was willing to take one for their two-person team. 

Automatically, Dean layers his hand on top, skin not as smooth as Castiel’s; manual labor to Castiel’s deskwork. But they both got their hands dirty in the end. Just like Castiel knew they would.

Dean licks his lips, and his voice is small, but determined when he speaks. “Have you ever loved anyone so much that you just don’t care about anything else? You just _have_ to be with them. If they look at you, it’s like sunlight on your soul. If you feel their breath on your skin, you just _ache_. Have you ever craved anyone so bad that nothing else matters but having them in your life, no matter the cost?”

Oh, Dean.

Meg’s silence is deafening. She looks away from them, eyes focused somewhere in the shadows of the dining room. Tightening her grip around the gun, she finally answers, “...yes.”

The tips of his ears pink, Dean says, gruffer now, "Well, then you know. You know that you can say what you want, but it’s not gonna work. Telling the truth, not telling the truth, who gives a fuck? It’s not gonna change the way I feel. About him, about you, about any of this.” He laughs, bitter and thick. “You think anything you have to say to me right now, after you killed my fucking friends, is gonna make me not wanna watch you die slowly and painfully?” The vehemence in Dean’s voice has Castiel shivering all the way to his fingertips. Dean’s been magnificent tonight; soul-crushingly beautiful and fierce and determined and all the things Castiel always knew he was. He’s earned this, he deserves this: to confront Meg after all these years. To finally get his catharsis. 

So Castiel settles back and waits. Lets the two of them spit their venom at each other. 

“I almost admire your bravery,” Meg tells Dean with a serrated smile. “Happy to die for the unrequited love of your life. It’s cute.”

The irony is palpable.

It’s not unrequited, it was never unrequited; it’s just that Castiel had been burned before. The only other man Castiel let get close – Balthazar – betrayed him, turned him in when he discovered that Castiel had been the one to put an end to the homophobic, abusive lives of his parents. Castiel knew Dean wouldn’t betray him, knew it deep down in the recesses of his soul, but was still so scared of Dean walking away in disgust – and having to face the consequences of that. So Castiel didn’t tell him the truth.

Turns out, Dean walked away anyway. 

“You wanna talk about unrequited love, huh?” Dean replies, cutthroat and not interested in believing Meg anymore. “‘Cause from what I heard, even with me outta the picture, Cas _still_ didn’t wanna fuck you. Must be super shitty to watch your best friend – the dude you’ve been in love with for twenty years – pass you over for literally anyone that comes along–”

Not true and not fair; there’s never been anybody but Dean, but Castiel will let it slide, because this is Dean’s moment. 

“–because he just. doesn’t. want. you.” Dean pouts, shoving his bottom lip out. “‘Happy to die for the unrequited love of your life. It’s cute.’”

Meg’s face has turned an interesting shade of crimson, sweeping pink across her cheekbones. “This was _his_ idea, you fucking idiot. You think that all of this is just coincidence?” She gestures around the dining room with the gun. “That you’re here just because Garth and I went for some drinks, pored over the good times and I said, ‘Hey, I know, why don’t you and your pals go on holiday to some spooky abandoned hotel?’ And my endgame was to off you all up in the wilds, just for the hell of it? How do you think I even knew about this place, huh? I know it’s nothing but cars and candy floss up in that pretty head of yours, but _please_ try to use some critical thinking skills.”

Dean laughs, perfectly psychotic. “Y’know what? I don’t care. I killed one of my best friends tonight. I killed him because there was a chance that all this might’ve been his doing, but now that I know it’s not? Makes no difference. Know why, sweetheart? He hurt Cas, and he was threatening to turn us in for the Ketch murder. So what do you think I’d be happy to do to _you_ , a no-good skank who’s responsible for breaking us up? Who killed Charlie and Garth? ‘Cause honestly, I’m feeling kinda footloose and fancy fucking free right now!”

Meg looks helplessly past Dean to Castiel. On the surface, she seems unperturbed, but Castiel can see the slight tremor where she’s holding the gun. “He’s gone crazy.”

Castiel lifts one shoulder in a shrug. In all honesty, Dean’s surpassing his expectations. He’d hoped Dean would kill Benny, obviously – orchestrated it that way – but he thought that once the rage had cooled, there’d be remorse.

He’s pleasantly surprised to discover that’s not the case. 

Dean really is just like him. 

“Are you doing this then?” Meg asks Castiel, impatient and irritated. After all, she’s had her fun, and now that Dean’s biting back instead of wallowing in his own insecurities, she’s got nowhere to go and nothing to push up against. It’s really getting under her skin, the fact that Dean is more comfortable with himself and his identity now. She was expecting the same insecure twenty-three-year-old with daddy issues and trauma, and whilst Castiel knows that none of it has really gone away over the years, the way Dean deals with it has certainly changed. For the better. 

“I’ll need the gun,” Castiel tells her coolly, trying not to give the game away. 

“Cas,” Dean says, his voice reed-thin. When he half-turns toward Castiel, his lashes flutter up to meet Castiel’s stare. There’s something about the heedless way he can look Castiel unflinchingly in the eye now that would bring him to his knees if he could get past the hot throb of pain in his ankle.

The self-inflicted pain, because let’s be honest, would Benny really have had the courage?

No. He’d rather pine for fourteen pathetic years than do something about it. 

Of course, if he _had_ done something about it, he would’ve died a long time ago. 

Castiel’s known about Benny’s crush for as long as it existed. It’s not like Benny was subtle, but Dean’s self-esteem was painfully low back then, so he never realized that Benny was head over heels. In any case, Castiel saw Dean first and was determined to keep him. 

By any means necessary.

If Ketch hadn’t wronged Dean – staring him down, creeping him out, most likely touching him in the shower that time – then he wouldn’t have been an easy scapegoat for Castiel’s own misguided attempts to grab and retain Dean’s attention. As an awkward sophomore, the most Castiel ever managed was a stilted, off-topic-but-not-quite comment about women with low self-esteem, in the hopes that it might prompt self-realization, but that would have required introspection without self-loathing, which is not one of Dean’s specialties. Not then, as a fresh-faced twenty-year-old, and not now, as a ruggedly handsome thirty-four-year-old.

It destroyed Castiel, knowing that Dean was out there with other people when he could have been with him. So he enlisted Meg’s help to make Dean as jealous as Castiel himself felt. 

Of course, because of the aforementioned low self-esteem, it backfired. 

When Castiel rushed out after Dean to apologize, to maybe stutter out his feelings, Dean was sitting on a bench in the plaza, looking so miserable that Castiel actually felt something like guilt carving out a hole in his chest. It was odd, and he didn’t like it. Though, looking back, it was the first indication that this wasn’t a mere infatuation, as Meg kept insisting. This was something more.

Castiel was about to approach when Meg showed up. Camera in hand from the photography class she’d shared with Charlie for one semester, Meg took a photograph of Dean, hugging his bag to his chest. 

“Buy him a present,” she’d said. “It’ll cheer him up and be a way into his pants.”

After Castiel had racked his brain for the best part of a week, hoping something would shake itself loose, he decided on a multi-tool. A perfect present for an engineer. Dean had been distant since the week before, on edge and avoidant, so it was apparent that Castiel had misjudged the situation. But hopefully, a present would help clear things up. Maybe Dean would throw himself into Castiel’s arms, grateful to receive such a thoughtful gift.

That wasn’t quite how it turned out. 

Of course, at that time, Castiel didn’t know about Arthur Ketch’s staring or about the groping incident, but he certainly made Ketch pay for it in the end.

Understandable, then, that Dean was skittish about the gift, the one that Castiel got cold feet about acknowledging when Dean gave him a smile that was tight around the edges.

Castiel took that smile as polite disinterest, and so backed down from his gift. Maybe Dean didn’t want him, maybe he was just being nice to his weird roommate, like he tended to be nice to everybody, and _shit._ Who would even buy someone they were interested in that kind of gift anyway? It was clingy and strange, Castiel suddenly realized.

The multi-tool was too much for a first present, that much was obvious. But rather than giving up, Castiel tried the more traditional route. Despite Meg telling him that flowers are for girls – _how are flowers gendered?_ – Castiel bought Dean some roses.

He was doe-eyed and hopeful, even though it was becoming increasingly obvious that Dean was avoiding him. It all culminated in the Great Misunderstanding™ – apparently they’re not just for romantic comedies. Dean babbled some nonsense about switching rooms, before he ran away again, and Castiel wondered if this was how normal people dated, because it was _exhausting_. 

Castiel went after Dean again, and seeing him entering Jo’s building had Castiel’s jealousy and frustration reach a boiling point. The flowers ended up getting ripped to shreds on Dean’s bed, scattered everywhere.

(Castiel lied to Dean earlier tonight when he said that he doesn’t think about Jo. He thinks about her a lot. He’s glad that she died when she did, because she – unlike Benny – might have actually made a move).

When Dean called him the next morning, explaining his theory about the stalker, Castiel stared across at Dean’s empty bed, covered in the evidence of his own temper tantrum. _Whoops_.

He needed a better plan to get Dean to fall in love with him, and as Castiel escorted him all over campus, he hit on it. Of course, learning that the asshole across the hall had been creeping on Dean served two purposes. Firstly, it gave Castiel a reason to be the protector, Dean’s knight in shining armor, because if there’s anything Castiel knows how to do, it’s fight. If you find yourself in enough crazy situations as an adolescent, you become adept at fighting your way out of them. Secondly, Ketch was a convenient scapegoat, because Dean’s suspicions were already in place. Castiel just had to massage them a little.

After dropping Dean off at a seminar, he ran to the library and printed out the first love letter he’d ever write. The font was nondescript, but the message itself was anything but. 

After that, things fell into place.

Not everything was plain sailing, of course. Castiel truly lost his temper the day Benny took Dean to the Botanical Garden. He had been patiently waiting for Dean, knowing his exam schedule. Garth was due to bring him home, and when he didn’t, Castiel set out looking for him. One fruitless visit to Garth and Charlie's later, he happened to catch Dean and Benny leaving Benny's place so he followed the two of them to the Botanical Garden. 

It worked out in his favor in the end, because after a couple of quick polaroids, Dean ran straight home to him. Not Benny. _Castiel_. 

Dean just needed someone to show him they cared about him, and Castiel was happy to be that person. On one side, Dean had the stalker, the guy frightening the shit out of him, and on the other, he had safe, reliable Castiel. 

It was Meg’s idea to write ‘I’ll never let you go’ in lipstick at the party.

Stupid, Castiel thought at the time, but it rattled Dean enough to shove all of his fear and rage onto the scapegoat. And Castiel was proud to be the manifestation of that fear and rage, especially when it meant that Dean gave himself fully to Castiel that night. And then again the next morning. 

Dean was everything: perfection personified and distilled into one human. Love and kink, darkness and light, wholesome and depraved. Castiel had to protect it. Had to protect Dean. 

There would always be people who wanted what they had. Contenders for Dean’s heart. And Castiel would happily fight the world for Dean Winchester, but would Dean do the same for him? It was impossible to be certain, but Castiel soon hit on a solution: they had to do something together that was so far beyond the pale as to bind them forever. 

Castiel just had to force Dean’s fear of his stalker past the point of no return. So he kept pushing and pushing and pushing. 

Dean’s panic attack in the quad was truly unfortunate. When Castiel rushed to help that day, he was so worried, he barely even noticed Meg following after him. Before Castiel could get to Dean, Meg grabbed his arm and held him back so she could take a picture of Dean in distress.

The whole thing didn’t sit right with him, but it did serve as the perfect catalyst for the murder of Ketch. Which was everything Castiel had been hoping for, and more. It bound them tighter, and Castiel was convinced that this was it, that he and Dean would be together forever. 

Then Dean started pulling away from him again.

It couldn’t have been Benny – again, too weak – but Jo? She did have a lot of influence over Dean. He’d already killed one person for Dean. Another was just a number. 

They were closer than ever after Jo’s death. Castiel felt vindicated, and Dean became his all over again. 

Then, just as Castiel was starting to find some rhythm between all of his worlds, Dean _left_ him. 

Of course, if Dean thought that a break-up was going to keep Castiel away from him, he was sorely mistaken. 

Castiel had promised he’d always keep Dean safe, and it was a promise he intended to keep for life. 

Over the years, Castiel watched as Dean dated, but none of those relationships ever turned serious. 

There was a reason for that. 

Nobody deserved Dean, nobody else was worthy. The fact that they all disappeared after one single little threat spoke volumes about their commitment. Dean deserved better.

Dean deserved Castiel. Castiel deserved Dean.

Castiel made a mistake the first time around. He should’ve gotten rid of everybody who could’ve ever come between him and Dean. But there are only so many bodies you can bury before you’re building tombs on top of tombs. Only so many skeletons you can stuff in a closet. 

Just one more now though. Then it’ll be just the two of them.

“Cas,” Dean tries again, watching with wide-eyed horror as Castiel accepts the gun from Meg. Castiel pulls back the slide, checking how many bullets are left in the chamber. Two. “What are you doing, man?”

The right thing. 

Murderer to some, reluctant hero to others. It all depends on your perspective. 

Because, if you really think about it, what was Billy Loomis doing other than avenging the death of his mom and the loss of his family? From his point of view, killing all those people was an acceptable – if extreme – course of action. 

Their fingers still intertwined, Castiel drags Dean closer to him, pressing himself up against Dean’s back, warm and solid in all the places they touch. Releasing Dean’s hand, Castiel hooks his left arm around Dean’s throat from behind and squeezes. Just a little. Dean goes deathly still, his breathing nothing more than a rough in-and-out as Castiel puts the muzzle of the gun up to Dean’s temple. The Earth stops spinning for half an instant, nothing but stale air in Castiel’s lungs.

Dean’s hair is soft. His lashes flutter. The scent of dirt and blood clings to his skin.

Castiel kisses the spot below Dean’s ear, the same place he kissed ten years ago, the last time they said goodbye. Dean makes a tiny, heartbroken sound in the back of his throat.

Silently willing Dean to just believe in him, in them, Castiel traces Dean’s jaw with the muzzle, edgy fear in Dean’s eyes, but there’s a ravenous gleam to them too that Castiel more than appreciates. 

They’re both pretty fucked up. 

“Just shoot him,” Meg says, feigning boredom, but this moment has been fourteen years in the making; there’s no chance she wants to miss this. 

“I love him,” Castiel tells her, not looking at her, too enthralled with the slow bob of Dean’s throat as he swallows. “I’ve always loved him.”

“O-kay. Sure, whatever. Look, I get that this is hard for you, but this is what we came here to do.”

It actually _is_ hard for him. He loves Meg too. Just not in the same way or to the same degree. 

Castiel drags the cool metal of the gun across Dean’s shoulder and down his arm, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. It could be fear or arousal, but Castiel knows which one his money is on. He presses the gun into the open palm of Dean’s right hand. Dean’s fingers close around it, and he lifts the gun to point it directly at Meg. 

She pales. “Castiel?”

Dean smiles serenely, a cool, glassy sheen over tonight’s chaos and frenetic energy. “Guess your BFF made his choice, huh?”

The flip from panic to anger is one of Castiel’s favorite things in the entire world. That split-second where you see precisely how much of a fighter someone is going to be with a gun or fist in their face. He thrives on it. 

Of course, he knows Meg, always knew that her reaction would be that of a cornered animal, but he’s still reluctantly impressed with the way she demands, “What the hell is this, Castiel?” before not giving him the opportunity to answer. Instead, she dives for Dean’s hand. 

Dean sees her coming though and catches her by the hair, yanking her head back. He kicks her left leg out from underneath her, sending her sprawling backward to the floorboards, knocking the air from her lungs, and making the rotten wood creak like an old ship. Her dark hair fans out around her and her chest heaves, betrayal written in every line of her face. 

Castiel watches alongside Dean as Meg twists onto her front and starts to belly-crawl away. She thrusts herself up onto her hands and knees, scurrying forward. 

The opening snap of the knife on the multi-tool is loud. Dean sinks to his knees, knife in one hand, gun in the other. He stabs the blade several inches into her calf muscle and she screams in agony. 

"It's always been Dean. Sorry," Castiel says, knowing he doesn't sound all that apologetic. “I may have misled you about the purpose of all this somewhat. They’ll find everyone dead by your hand, killed by the same gun that was used to kill Ketch. This was never about you and me, Meg, this was _always_ about Dean and me.”

Leaving the knife sticking up in her leg, Dean grabs her ankle and jerks her backward. She kicks and thrashes like a toddler throwing a tantrum. That is until Dean gets his hand around the knife and twists. She screams again and Dean yanks it out, stabbing her higher up, in the soft place behind her knee, wrenching another agonized sound from her.

She rolls over onto her back and Dean swings his leg over her thighs, sitting on her stomach. Gasping for breath, Meg brings her hands up, slapping at Dean’s face, his neck, clawing and scratching anywhere she can reach.

Unfazed, Dean presses the gun to her forehead and leans in so close that Castiel has to strain to hear. “Looks like I win, bitch.” And then he fires.

One shot is all it takes, and suddenly Dean has freckles of blood alongside the caramel ones that Castiel has counted from every angle over the past fourteen years. 

Dean climbs off Meg’s body, using the back of his arm to wipe the worst of the blood off his face. 

Crouched on his haunches, he starts going through her pockets, whilst Castiel holds the gun on her, just in case. If there’s one thing Castiel has learned from horror movies, it’s that the killer always finds a way to rise back up for one last scare.

“Aha!” Dean says, triumphant, turning on the ball of his foot to show Castiel his discovery. “The ignition leads!” From her other pocket, Dean pulls out the picture Charlie took at the beginning of the evening. The last one of them together. Dean studies it with liquid eyes for a couple of heartbeats, before tucking it back into Meg’s pocket, leaving it in the past where it belongs. 

Because this isn’t a horror movie, Meg doesn’t rise, but Castiel puts another bullet in her anyway. Just to be sure. He tosses the empty gun onto his best friend’s lifeless body.

He’s not feeling much beyond a profound sense of relief that it’s over. That after everything, he and Dean can be together. 

The sun is just peeking over the horizon as they stagger their way through reception onto the porch, rising on a new day. It fills the sky with shades of orange and pink, and Castiel with hope for his and Dean’s future together. 

Arms around each other, they stand there, taking it all in. 

Maybe one day Castiel will tell Dean everything. If he asks. 

Dean’s voice is cracked around the edges when he says, “It’s just you and me, right, Cas? You’re gonna stay with me?”

“It’s just you and me, Dean,” Castiel promises. “I’ll never let you go.”


End file.
